


The Kindness of Strangers

by Jaelijn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s06e15 The French Mistake, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is off doing penance - and that’s fine with Dean. Of course, he didn’t count on the angel acquiring a new vessel, that Misha Collins, fake-Cas from that screwed-up universe where their lives were a TV show. As if trapping another guy inside his body wasn’t bad enough, Misha seems to have no idea that he’s playing vessel to an angel! Meanwhile, the town in which he settled down sees a rise in demon population…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> Here it finally is, my first DCBB!  
> A huge thank you to my wonderful artist [kelisab@tumblr](http://kelisab.tumblr.com)| [krisham@AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/krisham/profile)| [playthefool@LJ](http://playthefool.livejournal.com/) who not only created amazing pieces for this fic, but also gave me such positive feedback that I felt finally comfortable with this project!  
> And, of course, to my wonderful beta and fellow Gisher, [b3takitten](http://b3takittenissospoopy.tumblr.com/) | [on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Betakitten/profile), who did some needed last-minute native-speaker revision when no one else would take this on!  
> And, finally, I'd like to thank the amazing mods for taking on and managing perfectly a challenge of this size - you are fabulous!  
> Without further ado, please enjoy!

## 

## ~ Prolog ~

It was a dark and stormy night – and _that_ sounded like a beginning of a really bad horror story, Sibyl thought. The description was accurate, however. The night sky was tinged pitch-black and violet, threatening, billowing clouds only illuminated by flashes of lightning. The thunderclaps were deafening, and the single tree in the backyard was whipped to and fro in the storm. Sibyl let the curtain fall back in place with a shudder. There shouldn’t be thunderstorms like that, not in this season, and not in Illinois, ever.

Gabriel, her yellow-eyed spotted tabby cat, was hiding under the sofa. Sibyl could have joined him there, but that wouldn’t have stopped her from jumping at each _bang_ of thunder, and she considered it rather below her dignity. Instead, she returned to her TV set and tried to focus on the show she was watching –

– until the semi-dark of her living room was torn apart by a flash of white, razor-sharp and painful, and accompanied by an explosion of thunder that made the glasses rattle on the shelf. It was over in a second, but all thoughts of watching TV were forgotten. Sibyl could have sworn that the whiteness faded into a pin-brick of light in her backyard. Maybe, hopefully, she was just seeing afterimages of the brightness, but what if the lightening had struck into the tree? It wasn’t a particularly tall tree, certainly not taller than the house, but stranger things had probably happened.

Sibyl pushed the curtains back and peered out into the darkness. The thunderstorm seemed to be receding, the light-levels appearing more like actual night now. It was still pouring down, raindrops running in torrents down her window – there was movement in her vegetable patch. Sibyl almost pressed her nose against the glass. Yes, there was definitely something there. An animal, maybe – a dog?

No. It was a man, pushing himself up from the ground in the middle of her asparagus. Sibyl had never had much hope for the vegetable patch – she didn’t exactly have a hand for gardening – but she still felt a spark of annoyance. What was the guy doing, anyway, outside in a rainstorm, and in a back garden where he most certainly didn’t belong?!

Still, her annoyance vanished when she realized that the intruder was either drunk or sick – he got as far as to his hands and knees before his hand slipped away from under him and he nearly landed nose-first in the wet mud.

“Jesus.” Sibyl snatched her umbrella from the hanger by the door – not that it would be much use in that storm – and slid the French window to her garden open. The storm was receding, yes, but the noise was still deafening. Rain bucketed down, drowning out any other sound but that of the raindrops hitting the ground and the occasional clap of thunder in the distance. The lawn was slippery and muddy, and Sibyl didn’t even _have_ any adequate footwear for this weather.

“Hey!” The storm tore the words from her lips, and she was pretty sure the stranger hadn’t noticed her yet. He was just sitting on the ground, in the rain, and staring at his hand. He wasn’t even wearing a jacket.

“Hello?! Are you all right?!”

The man looked up at that, unruly locks plastered to his forehead, blue eyes flashing as if the lightning had been caught in them. He looked confused – and sad. Sibyl reached out, trying to appear non-threatening. For all she knew, the guy was a homicidal maniac, but right now, he looked like a lost and very wet kitten, and there was no way on heaven, earth or hell she was going to let them sit in her asparagus plants any longer. “Come inside? You’re soaked to the skin!”

The man tilted his head, as if trying to comprehend who and what she might be. The umbrella wasn’t doing much for either of them, but the stranger seemed to be oblivious to the torrents of rain streaming down his face.

“Can you understand me?” Sibyl closed the gap and touched his shoulder – and suddenly, he grasped her arm, hard, pulling her off her feet on the slippery ground. She dropped the umbrella, and only just managed to fall to her knees instead of on her face. The stranger pressed his muddy palm against her forehead, muttering something she couldn’t quite understand and that might have been a foreign language – but his eyes were so intense and his gaze went right _into_ her that Sibyl couldn’t move away. It was not exactly fear that held her transfixed, nor was it shock – at least, not entirely: It was just a sensation that this was _so important_ and that she wouldn’t come to harm – not that Sibyl would admit such a flight of fancy to anyone. When the stranger dropped his hand, his entire body sagged sideways, falling heavily against her, eyes fluttering shut.

“Shit.”

Somehow, Sibyl managed to get him inside. Gabe didn’t like it – the stranger brought mud and rain and cold, and so did Sibyl, by now. He disappeared upstairs, and left Sibyl staring at the unconscious stranger dripping onto her floor. She should call 911, probably. Maybe the police were already looking for the guy. Maybe he needed a doctor, though she didn’t see any injuries. Something stopped her. It was most likely the same something that told her that she wasn’t in danger and that would eventually prompt her not to tell anyone about this for as long as she lived. Besides, who would have believed her, anyway?

Sibyl changed out of her wet clothes, and grabbed one towel for her hair and a whole pile for the stranger. He hadn’t moved from where Sibyl had dropped him just inside the living room, but he started awake when she plonked the towels onto his chest. Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the storm in the man’s eyes hadn’t abated. In the artificial light, his eyes still sparkled blue and brilliant white lurked behind it, though the brightness faded quickly. He sat up and looked about, appearing small and lost. There were laughter lines around his eyes that spoke of an expressive face, of joy and mischief, but there was none of it in his expression now. He didn’t look drunk – or in any way less than lucid – but it was quite clear that he had no idea what had happened to him. “Where am I?”

“In my living room. I rescued you out of the rain.” Sibyl nodded towards the French window. “I’m Sibyl Howard. What’s your name?”

The man dropped his gaze onto his lap and the towels, and rubbed his muddied hand clean on the top one. “I’m not sure.”

“Okay… Why don’t you clean up and get out of those clothes – they’re soaked through. I’ll see if I can find something that fits you – and we’ll talk more when you’re warmed up?”

He nodded, pushing himself to his feet. He wasn’t exactly short, perhaps just about 6 foot and a few inches taller than Sibyl, but the subdued manner made him appear much smaller.

“The bathroom is just through there.”

“Thank you.” He looked up, then, and Sibyl was struck by the utter sincerity in his gaze – she had never seen such unveiled honesty before, certainly not from any human being.

“You’re welcome.”

Finding clothes for the stranger in an all-female household wasn’t easy, but Sibyl discovered a shirt that her housemate’s ex had left. The plaid pattern wasn’t exactly the most fashionable and the color combination was a just a bit too flamboyant, but considering the sweater the stranger had been wearing, Sibyl didn’t think he’d mind. She found an old pair of her own baggy cloth pants that had always been too long, and a bright orange pair of shorts one of her buddies had sent her as a joke – they would have to do. She dropped the clothes in front of the bathroom and retreated to give him some space.

He emerged after only a few minutes, scrubbing at his hair with a towel. He still looked troubled, but a small smile was curling his lips and made his eyes shine. “Thanks for these. They almost fit.”

“Yeah, I don’t exactly have anything else around that would. I’ll put your clothes in the dryer later.”

“It’s fine, really. You’ve already done more than most people.”

“So, did your memory come back?”

He escaped her gaze by turning his head sideways almost shyly. “I’m afraid not.”

“Did you have any papers with you?”

“No – just keys.” He held them up for her. They looked like a perfectly ordinary keys, one of them might have been for a car, but there were no key rings. “I’m sorry. I should probably go.”

“It’s the middle of the night. Just… sit down for a moment.”

The man settled on the sofa, not quite relaxing, and Sibyl brought a chair over to be able to face him.

“Do you have any idea how you ended up in my garden?”

“None. I woke up on your floor and that’s it.”

“Should I call someone? The police?”

“I don’t think they’ll be able to help.” He said it with utter conviction, but then his face fell in confusion and his nose screwed up as he frowned. “Why would I say that?”

Sibyl didn’t have an answer for him, and nor did she know why she took his word for it and left the phone alone. “You can stay here for tonight, but we’ll have to think of something. My landlord will go crazy when he finds you here. He went absolute insane when my housemate had her girlfriend over for a week. Maybe all you need is sleep – else I’ll drop you off in Pontiac tomorrow. My parents have a small lot and a trailer there.”

“That is very generous.”

“Meanwhile, I am gonna call you ‘MISHA’.”

The man’s eyes sparkled. “Misha?”

“For ‘Man in Sibyl Howard’s Asparagus.’ Or would you prefer John Doe?”

To her astonishment, the man laughed, and his entire face lit up. “No, I like it. Misha.”

Sibyl set him up on the sofa, where he quite happily wiggled down into the cushions, and went to bed, where Gabriel was waiting for her. She locked her door, but she didn’t expect to be able to sleep with a stranger in the house, no matter how non-threatening he had appeared. She was wrong: Sibyl slept deeply that night, as if an angel was watching over her wellbeing.

 

Misha’s memory had not returned in the morning, though his spirits had brightened considerably. Apparently, everyday activities had not been affected by his memory loss, and he presented Sibyl with eggs and bacon for breakfast as a ‘thank you for your kindness’. Sibyl found it a bit odd and a bit charming. His sincerity warmed her heart, and she regretted not to be able to do more for him. She gave him the keys to the trailer, which he put on his keychain, and took him shopping. Equipped with food for two to three weeks, some basic clothes, a few spare dollars and her old mobile phone, she dropped him off at her parents’ holiday trailer. It was a bit dusty and smelled like her father’s old socks, but Misha didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed quite pleased with the woodland bordering the lot and the living area with a public playground branching off to the other side.

Sibyl still had difficulties placing him. His personality pinballed from quiet and melancholy to chipper and borderline crazy. In the store, she’d caught him staring into nothingness for full five minutes, frozen to the spot in the middle of the pie aisle, head tipped to the side and expression blank. He’d come right back to himself when she’d spoken to him, but it still was odd. He certainly didn’t have the appearance of anyone who’d had a rough time lately. His jumper was eccentric, but of excellent quality. She wanted to help him, put up posters, looking for someone who might miss him, call the police after all, but Misha remained adamant that he would be fine – and for the most part, he appeared fine.

And so, she left him. The drive had been weird. He had sat next to her, staring at her as if she was the most curious being he had ever encountered, but now he was back to his cheerful self, twiddling with the cell she’d given him. “Does this have Twitter?”

“Why? Do you have an account?”

“No – I don’t know. I don’t know why I asked. Heh.” He grinned to himself as if he’d made the most perfect joke, chin tipped so far down it almost rested against his larynx.

“Sorry I couldn’t do more. Just – ring me up if you need anything, yeah?”

“Sure. Thanks so much.”

Sibyl felt uneasy, a queasy sense of loss in the pit of her stomach, as she turned back to her car, but his gratitude would warm her for a full four weeks. When she would check on him after that, she would find the trailer deserted and Misha gone without a trace. She would never worry, but always remember – and sometimes, this brief encounter would seem like the most important thing she had ever done for the good of the universe.

 

 


	2. An Angel Living in a Trailer at the Edge of Town

## ~ An Angel Living in a Trailer at the Edge of Town ~

Thus it happened that Misha, a man without last name or tax number, settled down on the outskirts of Pontiac, Illinois, in an aged trailer at the edge of a forest. Misha was not in the habit of lying to himself – or, at least, he tried not to make a habit of it. He wasn’t entirely pleased with his lack of memory, and sometimes it would dampen his spirits, but he refused to let it pull him down. He knew with absolute conviction that going to the police, or to anyone else, for help would be a very bad idea, and if nothing else, he would hang on to that. In fact, he mostly kept to himself. Occasionally, he watched the children and their parents on the near-by playground – just from afar, because he delighted in the pure joy he witnessed there, but he wasn’t a weirdo middle-aged guy that got off on ogling children. Mostly, he watched nature, and sometimes, he wrote poetry. He wasn’t sure if it was any good, but it was something to do that brought him pleasure. It was also a distraction.

Only a week after Sibyl had dropped him off, he had seen the first monster. Or rather he assumed it had been a hallucination, or a trick of the light, but he’d seen the woman through the window of the small convenience store where he helped out for a few bucks, and her face had been – not human. It was twisted and torn and dark and profoundly _evil_. Misha couldn’t remember having seen something so hideous before, but then he couldn’t remember much of anything. Still, the cold abhorrence and threat that pooled in the pit of his stomach and made his heart leap to his throat made him jumpy for the rest of the day, and it wasn’t the last time he saw one of _them_. No one else seemed to notice, and Misha came to the conclusion that maybe he was sick – but going to a hospital seemed a very bad idea: They would probably lock him up thinking he was a lunatic, and maybe he was.

Mostly, he didn’t notice the lapse of time, because he wore no wristwatch, but there was this other odd thing. Occasionally, he would be doing something, and the next thing he knew, he was somewhere completely different, the previous activity abandoned. Once, he had been cooking soup, and then, inside of what had felt like the blink of an eye, it had been two hours later, he was outside, and the soup had burned into the sauce pan. The chunks of time just went missing, and he had no idea what he had done with them. They never came back to him – and neither did his memories.

Still, he got by on some two to three hours of sleep, so he had more time than most people, anyway. And maybe that was just a bit odd, too.

He started going for runs, and that was something he really enjoyed. It quieted him down, and it was actually fun – apparently, his body was built for it already. He didn’t like how often he ended up sprinting back to the trailer because he’d seen one of _them_ and he couldn’t ever let them see him.

It was almost a month until Misha finally conceded that maybe he should get help, after all. Even if it was just calling Sibyl for a second opinion. He never got around to it, though. The following morning, there was a gathering of police and yellow tape around the playground. Misha watched from the sidelines, leaning against the trailer as he always did, keeping in the semi-shade, even though he couldn’t spot any of _them_ right now. He found considerable relief in the fact that he’d had none of his lapses in the previous night, and that the homicide department wasn’t there because of him.

By midday, a largish black car rolled into the neighborhood and two men climbed out, wearing suits that look just a bit too cheap from where Misha was standing – as if they’d been stolen from a film set, though he really had no idea how he would be able to tell that. Still, the two men strode into the crime scene like it was second nature, flashing their badges at the local sheriff. The smaller one engaged him in conversation, and the second guy – ginormous, with dark brownish shoulder-long hair and muscles even a monkey suit couldn’t hide – strolled about the crime scene. Misha tried to melt a bit further into the shadows, but the giant looked up and straight at him.

Stepping over the yellow tape as though it was a mere dent in the pavement, he headed over. “Castiel?”

“Who?” Misha didn’t like that his voice came out as shrill and breathless. That guy wasn’t one of _them_  and he could always just pretend – not that he would know if the man actually knew him…

“Dude, are you all right? Dean and I could use your help, you know.”

Misha backed away, refusing to let the agent, or whatever he was, tower over him. “My help?”

“Yeah, of course. Cas, are you okay?”

“I… I think you... uh… have mistaken me for someone.”

The tall man shook himself, rolling his shoulders back. “I apologize, sir. You look just like – you’re not Jimmy, are you? Jimmy Novak?”

“Uh… No?” How would he even know!

“Sammy!” It was the giant’s FBI colleague, the shorter one with the almost military haircut who looked older and much more dangerous.

“Over here, Dean!”

Dean ducked under the tape and came over. “Dude, that body–“ He rounded the other’s enormous back and his eyes settled on Misha, green eyes lighting up with recognition. “Jeez, Cas!”

“Uh… no, Dean. Apparently not.”

Dean frowned. “What?” His gaze turned back on Misha. “Oh, no, not again – Jimmy?”

“I don’t think so,” the other said, looking vaguely uneasy.

Misha was so far past uneasy. “Who are you people?! You’re certainly not FBI!” That was probably not a very clever thing to say, in hindsight. Misha had the unsettling feeling that somehow he should know these guys, and that he should get away from them as far as possible – even though they were no monsters. He had learned to trust these gut feelings lately, because without memory, there was precious little else to guide him. He retreated, putting more distance between him and the men and less between him and the door of his trailer. “How many guys who look like me do you know?!”

Dean came after him, completely ignoring his partner’s hand on his arm. “Too frigging many. What are you? Shapeshifter?”

“What?!” Misha didn’t even mind his voice rising incredulously this time. What on earth was a shapeshifter? He might have amnesia, but these guys were bat-shit crazy!

“Dude, you’re scaring him.”

For a second, Dean turned back to his colleague, and Misha took his chance. He bolted up the stairs to his trailer, wrenched open the door and slammed it shut behind him, clicking the locks before he dropped onto the floor, leaning his back against the door. His heart was hammering in his chest like he had just run a marathon.

The knock almost made him jump out of his skin. “Man, we just want to talk to you for a second!” The tall guy was peering in through the window!

Misha pulled the curtain. “Go away!”

“Listen, if we mistook you for someone, you can be certain other people will, too. Dangerous people. We just wanna help.”

 _Dangerous people_ – like the monsters?

When Misha came to his senses, he was across his trailer with his back against the kitchen counter and the door was open. Of course the two guys were inside. He almost had a heart attack then and there. “What the hell is going on?!”

“We are not going to hurt you, I promise”, ginormo declared, “I’m Sam, this is my brother, Dean. We’re here to help. What is your name?”

It probably wasn’t, but Misha felt wrung out enough as it was without showing them how vulnerable he really was on the memory front. He slumped against the counter. “Misha.”

Just like that, something in Dean’s business-like demeanor slipped, and a darkness slid into his eyes. Misha found himself staring – these eyes were so unlike his own, so somber and pained and haunted, and now there was no mirth in them, just disgust – and danger. “‘Misha?’” It was almost a growl.

“I…” Suddenly, something flashed across the blank canvas of Misha’s memories – not so much an image but a sensation. Fear, terror, trapped, cold – his back against a wall and dark eyes boring into his – a knife at his throat. Misha’s knees turned to jelly, and he sagged with an undignified “ieep”. Suddenly, the two men had caught him, and were guiding him to the sofa.

“You should sit down,” Sam said, and Dean pulled a glass out of Misha’s cupboard and filled it at the sink, pushing it into his face.

“Drink.”

“Thanks. I should probably have bought alcohol at some point.” The joke sounded hollow even in Misha’s ears. “Look, I’m just a normal guy, okay? I’m not special, I haven’t done anything. I watch nature, I go for runs, I write poetry. That’s it.”

“Your name’s Misha?” Dean stilled looked doubtful, but the thunder was gone from his expression.

“Yeah. Why do you keep asking that?”

Sam sighed, shaking a loose strand of hair out of his eyes. “We met someone called Misha once.”

“What, and he looked like me as well?” Misha huffed a laugh, but the two men just looked at him without so much as a raised eyebrow. “Seriously? Oh.” He drained his glass, wishing really, really hard that it were something stronger. “But you already called me Castiel. And Jimmy.”

“It’s kind of a long story. Anyway, you’re not him. He’s dead, so you can’t be him.”

Misha choked on a chuckle. “You sure about that?”

“Pretty damn sure,” Dean butted in, voice gruff and a frown on his forehead. “Why aren’t you?”

Misha plucked at a loose thread on his pants. “I have this… thing. This… uh. Amnesia.”

“Christ!” Dean threw up his hands in exasperation. “That’s it. I’m gonna call Cas. His penance will have to wait as long there’s a look-alike running around.”

“I’ll do the tests in the meantime,” Sam said.

Misha shrank back into the cushions. “What tests?”

 

Dean left the trailer feeling more than a little overwhelmed. Angels taking vessels was one thing, parallel universes were another, but this was just frigging crazy. Last he checked, they still were in their reality, not that bat-shit crazy one where their lives were a TV show and Castiel was an actor and Sam was married to fake-Ruby. Last he checked, that corpse back there had been possessed by a demon and was now abandoned and decaying fast. Fuck knew why the demon had abandoned his vessel in the middle of a playground, but it was supposed to be an easy case. Just something to while away the time while Kevin worked on the demon tablet and Cas was off somewhere doing penance for the things he’d done. Dean hadn’t heard a peep from him since he’d decided to stay with Fred Jones, but he hoped that the fact that Cas had turned off angel radio did not mean that he was unable to hear praying.

“Okay, Cas, Castiel, whatever, listen up. We have a situation here and we could really use your input, buddy, so just get your ass over here, okay?” Dean stared at the sky for a moment, feeling stupid. Nothing happened. “Dammit, Cas, I know you didn’t want to come with us, but this has probably something to do with you – I just need to know you didn’t get whisked back to Heaven–“

“Dean!”

For a split second, Dean thought it was Castiel, because that was what the angel always – _always_ – said, but it quickly sank in that it was Sammy’s panicked voice coming from inside the trailer. Dean had his gun pulled and ready by the time he darted across the threshold, where he lowered it again immediately. This wasn’t his kind of problem.

Sam had folded his enormous frame into the space before the sofa, and Misha was flat on his back, seizing. Sam had a tight grip on his arms, but his legs were jerking uncontrollably. For a moment, all Dean could think was how much the guy looked like Cas. “Jeez…”

“Dude! Give me a hand!”

Dean pushed the gun back behind his belt and stepped in to catch Misha’s legs, receiving a kick into his sternum for his troubles that winded him, but he’d had worse. Sam had shoved a kitchen towel between Misha’s teeth, but Dean could just see his eyes, open a slit, and revealing nothing but pure white.

And then, it was over. Misha grew slack, and they both let go, Sam carefully removing the towel. There was a bit of blood on Misha’s lips were he’d bit himself before Sam had been able to get to him, but it wasn’t much.

“Dude, what the hell?”

Dean never got his answer. Misha’s eyes snapped open, and he sat upright as if someone had shoved a stick up his ass. He looked at Sam first, then Dean, blue eyes intense. “Sam. Dean.” His voice had dropped in register, and Dean knew. He frigging knew.

“So what? You’re possessing this guy now?! Don’t you already have a vessel?”

“Castiel?” Sam asked, half towards the angel and half towards Dean. As if it weren’t obvious.

Castiel inclines his head. “Yes, Sam. It is I – and I have inhabited this vessel for a while now.”

Dean didn’t like it. At all. “How come he has no bloody idea? Don’t you have to ask for consent anymore, or what? And why was he even conscious if you’ve been in there the whole time?”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, and the gesture was so unlike what Dean had seen of Misha so far that it made his skin crawl. “He granted me permission, though he does no longer remember doing so. I apologize, Dean. I had to fix what I could.”

“Fix? What the hell are you talking about?”

Castiel swung his legs down from the sofa with a soft exhale that might have been a sigh, sitting even straighter. Sam stepped back, giving him space, but the angel didn’t attempt to rise. “My penance was going well, and I needed to repair what I could. The damage I caused in Heaven… is irreversible, but there are some things I can do on Earth. I couldn’t save all of them because the ritual weakened me. This, however–” Castiel spread his arms just a fraction as if to indicate his body. “– he is an adequate vessel.”

“No. I’m not buying it, Cas. What, Jimmy has just an identical twin randomly walking about? What is this, _St Clare’s_? Besides, you already had a vessel – just let the guy get on with his life! And why were you even hiding – you know who does that?”

“Dean.”

Dean sucked in a harsh breath and swallowed down the rest of his tirade. He owed it to Cas to let him get a word in edgewise, at least.

“I don’t understand your reference, but this vessel is not related to Jimmy Novak, and it was always my intention to leave him when he is ready. This is the reason I have not made my presence known when I noticed the absence of any memories. There are, however, certain… side effects to being a vessel which I have found difficult to control. There has also been an increase in the demon population in town.”

“Yeah, we noticed. Do you think it might have something to do with the angel living in a frigging trailer at the edge of town?”

Castiel finally rose to his feet, stepping past Sam and closer to Dean, who forced himself to stand his ground. Cas wasn’t trying for intimidating, but his body language and the hard glaze still made it very clear that the angel did not agree with him, and that his patience was wearing thin. “My presence was hidden.”

“Fine. How about you jump back into Jimmy before he gets lost or murdered and we deal with that demon problem.”

Castiel suddenly avoided his gaze and looked out of the window, his stance clearly indicating that this was not a subject he wanted to talk about. “Jimmy has not been inside my vessel for a long time, Dean.” His eyes roamed over the edge of the forest visible outside for a moment before he glanced back. “And I cannot leave this one at present. The damage is profound, and the ritual weakened me. It is taking longer than I expected. I have to go now.”

“What? Cas, wait, hold up!” Dean reached out to catch Castiel’s sleeve, expecting him to pull his vanishing act (and really not thinking about what would happen to him if he held on to the angel in progress), but Cas just dropped his gaze, and when he looked back up, the supernatural intensity was gone from his eyes. Dean read confusion, then Misha pulled away, moving out of Dean’s personal space.

“Oh, man, it happened again, didn’t it? I blacked out again.”

Sam was doing his best to imitate a fish. “Dude, you were seizing!”

“Yeah, right, and the seizures walked me into his personal space.” Misha ran a hand through his hair, making a mess of it. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s part of my thing, you know. The amnesia, blackouts.”

Sam shook his head and looked at Dean. “Do you wanna tell him?”

“Might as well. He can’t just stay here.”

“Tell me what? Why can’t I stay?”

For someone who had an angel riding around inside himself, not a shred of memory and had just had a frigging seizure, Misha was paying damn close attention.

“You ought to sit down for this.”

“No, thanks.” Misha leant back against the kitchen counter again, folding his arms. “What is going on?”

“There’s an angel inside your body.”

“What? That’s ridiculous!”

“His name is Castiel. We’re not entirely sure what he’s doing, but he says he saved you,” Sam went on, completely serious.

Dean, on the other hand, was trying his best not to find this laughable. At least with Jimmy, he had been pretty much aware of what had happened to him after Castiel had been forced to leave, even if he was a little fuzzy on the details. This guy had an angel up his ass at that precise moment and didn’t even know.

“You’re serious.” Misha glanced from Sam to Dean and back. It wasn’t a question, but Sam nodded anyway. “His name is Castiel?”

“Yes. He’s one of the good guys, so you’re okay. Kinda. If he says he’s trying to help, he usually is.” Even if his attempts at helping had a tendency to go belly-up big time.

“You called me that before. You thought I was Castiel when you saw me by the trailer.”

“Yes. Sorry I was right?”

“No, no. I’m still me, though – I’m not Castiel now, am I?”

“Not as far as we can tell.”

“So my memory – or lack of memory, anyway – is that him?”

“Dude, I have honestly no idea.”

Misha nibbled on his bottom lip for just a moment, then looked back at Dean. “So, angels are real. Are demons real, too?”

“Yeah. Pretty much every one of the nightmares you’ve ever had is out there.” Dean could count the people he had told this – had had to tell this – on his hands, but he’d never seen someone take it quite as easily in stride as Misha did. The guy barely blinked.

“Yes, I am sure that serial killers are. Still, what do I know with only a month worth of nightmares to consider.”

Jeez, the guy was talking circles around him! Dean squared his shoulders. “ _Supernatural_ nightmares. Monsters.”

“That’s what we do – we’re hunters. We stop those… monsters,” Sam jumped in helpfully.

“Those demons. Do they look human, but not?”

“They can turn their eyes black. Or sometimes red.”

“No, I mean, are they dark, deformed… uh, corrupted? Like a painting smudged with blood.”

Dean was about to shake his head, but Sam brought him up short. “Dean, what if – because Castiel is inside him – what if he can see the demons’ true form? Cas can.”

“Okay, whatever. We’re getting out of here until this is sorted out. Misha, pack a bag. You’re not staying here surrounded by demons with Cas hiding inside you.”

 

 


	3. Just an Actor in a Crappy Motel Room

## ~ Just an Actor in a Crappy Motel Room ~

Misha somehow managed to disassociate himself completely from any kind of puzzlement or confusion, and packed in a time that would have rivalled what it took Sam and Dean to get out of a motel in the mornings. There wasn’t all that much to pack, anyway: Sibyl had been kind, but he still only owned three sets of clothing and an old mobile phone, the car keys he’d had with him from the start and the little booklet he’d filled with poetry and other stuff.

Sam had gone off to inform the police of their departure and to give them a number to call if any more bodies turned up, but Dean was still leaning against the doorframe of the trailer, pretending that he was keeping a look-out and not watching Misha’s every move.

“You can stop staring at me, you know. I usually don’t have another blackout for at least four hours.” As far as Misha had been able to tell, it was never less, though the periods in between were frequently longer. He still didn’t really know what was happening to him – he couldn’t feel anything inside him that felt foreign, let alone angelic, but if his amnesia had started when Castiel had… possessed him or whatever, he couldn’t really be sure what it was like to be normal. Somehow, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d never felt normal in his life, angel or no angel.

Dean didn’t answer. He just gave a non-committal grunt and didn’t glance at Misha again until they were standing by the sleek black car the two had arrived in. “No word about the wheels. And _I_ decide who rides shotgun.”

Misha hadn’t been about to dis the car, if that was what Dean had expected. “You drive an Impala?”

“A 1967 Chevrolet Impala, yeah.” Dean squinted. “Why’re you asking?”

“Nothing, I… I don’t know. I guess it just rang a bell somewhere. Like when I asked Sibyl about Twitter.” Misha shoved his bag into the backseat and climbed in after it, sliding through until he sat behind the driver’s seat.

Dean, of course, took the wheel, while his brother crammed his massive frame into the shotgun seat. “Who’s Sibyl?”

“She found me. In her asparagus. In a thunderstorm.”

Sam scoffed a laugh. “Sorry, man. But that is almost poetic.”

Misha shrugged. “It’s okay. It’s not like I know what I’m missing.”

Dean shifted into gear and brought the car smoothly onto the road, his eyes flickering into the rearview mirror to meet Misha’s for just a second. “So you only remember your name?”

“Well, no. Not really. It’s an anagram for ‘Man In Sibyl Howard’s Asparagus’.”

Sam guffawed, and Misha smiled back. It was ridiculous, but his whole situation was messed up, and he still kind of liked the name.

“Okay, hilarious.” Dean’s expression said something else entire, and Misha wondered why. “I’m taking us to a motel a few towns over, put some distance between those demons and our hiding angel. Get some sleep or something.”

Misha didn’t usually sleep in the afternoon, but the blackout seemed to have taken more out of him than usual. He jerked awake to a hand landing on his knee, sweaty and with the vague memory of his usual nightmare at the edge of his mind. He never really remembered the dream, but he knew that it was the same over and over again, and he wondered now if this was why the angel thought he needed help.

Sam was leaning around to the backseat, hand on his knee. “Dude, are you alright?”

“Yeah, fine.” Misha managed a shaky smile. “Just a nightmare.” He fell silent, listening to the rumble of the engine, and wondering why it felt like there was something here he really should remember.

“Well, there’s the motel. Time to stretch our legs.”

This time, it was Dean who went off to secure them a room, but Sam stuck to Misha’s side. The brothers were trying to appear casual about it, but it was quite clear that they were not letting him out of their sight.

When Dean came back, he looked displeased. “Only two beds.”

“I don’t sleep much,” Misha volunteered.

“Dude, no offense, but you’re not going to sit there watching us sleep! Jeez, you’re as bad as Cas!”

Somehow, Misha found that just a bit flattering. “I’m not a homicidal maniac – a maniac maybe, but not homicidal – at least, I don’t think so.”

He was still allocated the bed furthest from the door, and Dean made himself comfortable on the sofa that sacked under his weight with a disquieting creek. The motel room was acceptably clean, but utterly hideous, featuring some sort of pinkish and green flowery wallpaper. Misha sat on the edge of the bed and tried to look anywhere but at the appalling pattern, plucking on a thread on his jeans. “Now what.”

“Now we get Cas to talk to us properly and explain what the hell he’s doing with you,” Dean announced with a confidence that was clearly false.

“How? It’s not like I have a direct phone line to him. I didn’t even know he was there.”

Sam opened the large duffel bag the brothers seemed to carry everywhere. “We know a few tricks. Holy oil?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t think he’s going to disappear on us.”

“Your call.”

The two shot instructions and ideas back and forth over Misha’s head while he just… sat there. He struggled through the fog in his mind, but found nothing. _Castiel? Are you really there? Because if you aren’t, how do I know I can trust them?_

There was no answer.

“Right. Misha?”

Misha looked over to Sam and Dean, who were standing by the table over a bowl with some very unsavory ingredients. Sam was holding a notebook.

“Just stay there.”

Then, Sam began an incantation in what might have been Latin. Misha found it all a bit too strange to really think about it, but he felt nothing. At least, they were no monsters, or demons, or whatever, and they weren’t trying to hurt him, not like –

“Oh God! Oh god, oh god, oh god!”

Sam stopped midsentence, and Dean stepped closer, only to bring himself up short. “What the hell, Misha?”

Misha rushed to his feet, _this_ far away from hyperventilating. “Someone tried to kill me! Someone said I was Castiel and he cut my fucking throat in a dark alley!” He didn’t know what was worse – reliving the panic attack, realizing that by all rights and purposes he should be stone dead, or seeing the look of recognition on the brothers’ faces. “What kind of an insane thing is it you do?!”

“Calm down, man,” Sam said with something like actual worry. Dean just had a hand hovering over what Misha assumed to be a hidden gun.

“Calm down?! I should be _dead_!”

“You were,” Dean deadpanned.

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better!”

“Look, obviously Cas saved you.”

“Is this like a normal day for you? Do you come back from the dead ever so often, all in a day’s work?” Misha moved back, pushing himself as far away from the brothers as he could in the small space between the beds. “Oh god – that day – on set – that was _you_. I thought J2 had crashed hard the night before – not that it’s like them to go out together, but they used to be best friends, so – but it was _you_ – that’s why you couldn’t act! Is this what you do? Order body parts over the internet? That show – it’s all real?”

“I guess your memory is back,” Dean cut in with the same inflectionless voice. “And you remember all the shit from your screwed up reality. Frigging great.”

“My reality is screwed up? Try fighting monsters, and demons, and angels! I’m just… me. Misha Collins. Actor. I’m not… Castiel.”

“You are now,” Sam said. It wasn’t without sympathy, but Misha didn’t want to hear it right now. He didn’t want to see _them_ – the actual them, not Jensen and Jared acting them. The similarity was astounding, but there was an edge and a gleam to Dean that Jensen didn’t have. A danger lurking behind apple-green eyes – this man had been to Hell and back, and it was literate. And Sam – had lost so much, right down to his very soul, and Jared’s carefree manner was a rarity for him. Worst of all, it was Castiel’s fault – his fault.

Misha turned his back on the brothers, forcing his breath to slow and his voice to remain calm. He wasn’t an actor for nothing. “What happened with Raphael?”

“Dead. Cas opened Purgatory, got all the souls out, went power-crazy, tore down Sammy’s wall – got taken over by the Leviathans, who tried to take over our world – then Cas took Sam’s crazy and it messed him up – but we beat the Leviathans, and got sucked to Purgatory for our troubles, which fixed Cas – and now where back out again. Same old. That about sum it up?”

“That sounds like I’ve missed… years.”

“Yes, well. Cas’s been trying to _fix things_. Do penance, whatever that means. Best guess, he pulled a _Back to the Future_ on you and somehow saved your life, taking you back here.”

“You’re okay?” Sam cut in.

Misha remembered to breathe. “I don’t really want to… um. Just… leave me alone for a while, okay?” To his absolute astonishment, the brothers actually did.      

 

Dean didn’t really know what to say after they had pulled the door close behind them, twisting the key in the lock. He was pretty sure Misha wouldn’t try to get away – it wasn’t like he had anywhere to go, not like Jimmy, but this was for his protection as much as for keeping him where he was. Cas, whatever he was doing inside the guy, clearly wasn’t at full power, or he wouldn’t have given over control of the body just like that – at least, Dean didn’t think so, even though it made Cas sound kind of mean.

Sam looked just as lost as he felt. “What now?”

“I don’t know! I guess we let Cas do his thing and then figure out if he can get out of Misha and back into his old body – whatever happened to Jimmy.”

“Yes, but then where would Misha go? It’s not like we can just send him back, and we can’t let him go out there – he looks like Castiel! I’m surprised the demons didn’t find him while Cas was Emmanuel, actually, but it was only like half a year until you caught up with him, and it would be a lifetime for Misha. And he’s not exactly a hunter.”

“Dude, we’re not taking him with us. How would that even look? It’s like he and Cas are identical twins!”

“Okay, let’s go get some food, give the guy some time. We’ll figure something out later.”

 

When they came back to the motel room, almost an hour had passed, and they were equipped with a plastic bag containing sandwiches and pie. Dean had insisted, and Sam had indulged him, though Dean suspected that the Sasquatch knew it was about comfort food. They upped the volume on their banter as they approached the room, just to give Misha fair warning that they were back, but when they unlocked the door, it was Castiel sitting on the edge of the bed.

He was just sitting there, and there was a rigidity to his posture that neither of his vessels had had. When he turned his head to look at them, his gaze had depth that came from knowledge and power. “Hello, Dean.”

“Dammit, Cas.” Dean dumped the plastic bag on the table. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Not long.”

“You couldn’t have just watched TV while you waited?”

And there was the headtilt. “You are angry. I don’t understand.”

“You _know_ how I feel about this shit with the vessels! Why did you abduct the guy? You already had a body, and if Jimmy was no longer there, the better! Couldn’t you have just popped in, saved Misha, and left him there?”

“Under ideal circumstances, that would have been my course of action.”

“And you’re about to tell me circumstances weren’t ideal.”

“Time travel is difficult even in the same dimension. I couldn’t be sure. When I arrived, he was already dead and you had returned to this dimension. The ritual weakened me – I had to go back immediately or become trapped indefinitely. I have… reconstructed bodies before, but it is complicated without access to Heaven. I could heal him from the inside if I took him as vessel.”

Dean really didn’t want to know how reconstructing a human being worked – especially not since he’d been rotting six feet under before Cas had pulled him out of Hell, and afterwards there hadn’t been a mark on him – except for Castiel’s handprint (which was apparently the physical manifestation of some mark on his soul from the struggle to get him out of hell and not an actual handprint, since Cas hadn’t been inside a vessel when it happened – or so he’d told Dean). “So how long will it take?”

Castiel shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

“What if Misha wants you out?”

“I leave, of course. But I cannot be sure he will survive.”

“Okay. Fine. Okay. Fix him up. Just keep him asleep like you did with Jimmy until you’re done. This has been traumatic enough for the poor guy.”

There was an immediate shift in Cas’ demeanor, a human sparkle alighting in his eyes and his posture softening. “Hey, I might have something to say about that, you know!” Not Cas – Misha.

Dean swore under his breath.

“At least now I know you’ve been telling the truth,” Misha said, glancing at Sam briefly before returning his too-lively gaze to Dean.

“That was you all along?”

“Not an actor for nothing.”

“So the explanation…”

Misha shrugged. “I made it up. You gave me almost an hour prep-time – I’ve worked well with less. And I _have_ been playing Cas for three years.”

“It sounded plausible,” Sam offered.

Misha’s face relaxed into an easy smile as if he’d just been paid a compliment. Maybe he had. “Really?”

“It took Dean in. And he and Cas have a _profound bond_.”

Dean groaned. He’d known as soon as Cas had said it that Sam was never going to let him live this down – of course, the teasing had only started when he’d gotten his soul back.

Misha, however, was still smiling, fondly now. “Huh, I remember that scene.”

Dean stared at him. This was so messed up – it was like those damn books all over again.

“Um, sorry. This must be really strange for you. I probably know a few things–” Misha snapped his fingers. “Like future Cas! Have you ever told him?”

Dean tried to stop himself, he really did, but he fidgeted anyway. And of course the actor noticed.

“Okaaay. I’ll shut up now.”

Misha without memory had been eccentric enough, but at least Dean had felt he’d had an advantage over the guy then. Misha with his memory was like a tornado – chaotic, temperamental, difficult to pin down – impossible to control.

“Dude.” Dean sacked on the only chair in the room, unpacking the pie. He’d _so_ earned that.

Misha rose to his feet and began pacing. “Well, the situation is still messed up, but at least you really think Castiel’s using me as a vessel. Which means you haven’t been lying to me. So Jimmy is gone? Castiel told you that?”

Sam flopped down on the second bed. “Yeah. Back in the trailer.”

“Right. The blackout.”

“So not a blackout, man. You honestly can’t feel him?”

Misha shook his head. “No.”

There was that nerdy look on Sam’s face all of the sudden. As if this all was so _fascinating_. “That’s weird – remember what Jimmy said?”

“That having an angel inside you was like being chained to a comet? Yeah, I remember,” Misha said, and that earned him an open mouthed stare from Sam.

Dean took a slice of pie. Seriously messed up.

The actor seemed to notice the uncomfortable silence. “I… um. I played him, too, of course. I mean, there was never really – it was all just me – and it’s not like I had an identical twin somewhere who could have–”

“Dude”, Dean said around the pie, “we get it.”

“Anyway, Cas won’t talk to me, either. I’ve tried.”

“Maybe he can’t communicate with his vessel.”

“There has to be a way. I mean, he needed my consent. And I still don’t remember giving it, so I must have been either dead or dying. He must have somehow contacted me from the inside.” Misha shuddered, and sat down again, suddenly subdued.

Dean didn’t like it. The look reminded him of Cas when they’d left him in that mental hospital. Like a puppy had just died. He pushed over the pie tray, but Misha ignored it.

“Any clue what happened back in my universe after I…?”

Sam shifted, causing the sheets to rustle underneath him. “Uh… Vigil did a number on your crew, I think. I’m sorry.”

“Cas didn’t say?”

“Just said he hadn’t been able to save anyone.”

“So Jared – and Jensen, wherever they were when you were there – they’re probably dead, yeah?”

“That’s fake-me? Dude, your names–”

“Fake you?!” Misha didn’t even think to let Dean finish his sentence. He had shot to his feet again. “They weren’t _fake_! Is that what I am to you? Fake Castiel? Or fake Jimmy? Because last I checked – they were people – they were…”

Dean raised a placating hand. Frigging tornado.

Misha, however, had already deflated, slumping back down. “Look, I was just a recurring, okay? The fans seemed to like what I did – I was only meant to be in it for like five episodes when I started, but they kept me for another season, and another, but with the tension on set between J and J – I didn’t really feel… I don’t know. They’re professionals, of course, but when the camera was off… They would just avoid each other, and the entire crew would mollycoddle _them_ so they didn’t blow up, you know. Because they kept the show running. When I saw you together I thought maybe they’d finally… they were still somehow my friends. They were just Jared and Jensen.”

Sam looked at Dean with that reproachful expression like he wanted him to apologize, but Dean couldn’t figure out why, or where to start. “It must be hard for you.”

Misha shrugged abortively. “No thanks to your universe. What do you plan to do with me, now, anyway? I guess Castiel is not leaving any time soon.”

“We still have the case to work on.”

“So what? You just drop me off at Bobby’s and go about your business until you have time?”

Dean suddenly didn’t feel like eating anymore. Sam cleared his throat. “Bobby’s dead.”

Misha’s eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry. How did he, um…”

“A leviathan shot him,” Dean answered, with a croaked grimace that was a cross between a smile and a frown.

“Sorry. I… guess I really have missed a lot.”

“’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, it kind of is.”

“You’re not Castiel.”

“Maybe I wasn’t then. Doesn’t matter. I guess I just tag along, then.”

“No way. You’re not a hunter.”

“Hey, don’t underestimate me. I might not be a hunter, and I’m not Castiel, not really, but I can be useful. I can recognize the demons from hundred yards away – you won’t even have to get close enough to say ‘Christo’.”

“Yeah, we don’t do that much anymore. Tends to piss them off, and they come at us now, anyway. We’re the Winchesters.”

Misha looked at him like he’d just had a wish come true. “You know, that is so strange.” But he didn’t elaborate.

 

 


	4. Taking Flight

## ~ Taking Flight ~

They ended up spending the night in the motel, anyway. After much pestering, Sam had lent Misha his laptop and had curled up to catch some sleep. Dean was flicking through the notes Sam had started to put together on angels, but mostly he was just watching Misha surfing the net. Occasionally, his face would light up in the bluish glare of the screen, but mostly he just seemed to concentrate really hard, nibbling on his bottom lip in a way neither Jimmy nor Cas had ever done, and sometimes, he looked sad.

Eventually, it was clocking on midnight, he flipped the screen shut and cracked his shoulders. “You know, Cas is being really quiet. I would have expected another blackout by now. I usually get them twice a day at least.”

“If Cas doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want to talk.”

“He trusts you, he really does. He would – hell, he _has_ given everything for you. It’s just that sometimes he feels like he has to protect you. You are an older brother, you can relate.”

“Wait, what? No, no. No way is Cas the older brother here. He’s just – he’s the younger brother, definitely. I mean, he’s just a nerdy dude with wings.”

“He’s a wavelength of celestial intent, Dean. And he is old, so old you can’t even begin to comprehend it.”

Dean snapped the notebook shut. “Okay, drop it.”

Misha shrugged. “Sorry. You need to get behind the motivation of a character if you want to play him right.”    

A change of topic was in order. Right now. “Do you trust us?”

Misha looked at him askance. “You mean that? Really?”

“You don’t? Hey, what’s there not to trust?”

The actor dragged a hand over his face. “I know who you are and what you do, intellectually. But it’s not like I _know_ you. Besides, even if I did – you have killed damn many people. I don’t think you will do anything to me, or let anything happen to me, at least not as long as Cas is inside me. But it’s not like I could just walk away from you and be safe. I get that. The only way I’ll get out of this is if I get out of this universe – and since I’m technically _dead_ , that’s probably not going to work out so well. I’m sorry if that scares me just a little.”

“But you want to come on a hunt?”

“Yes. I’m not crawling into a hole to hide.”

“I could ask Cas to put you to sleep next time he surfaces.”

“No. If he does that, I am kicking him out.” Misha’s hand suddenly flicked to his temple, and he grimaced. “Okay, what the – never had migraines before – I guess…”

Then, just like a switch had been flicked, Misha’s hand dropped into his lap and he sat a little straighter, his gaze just that bit more otherworldly, his body language and facial expression far more restrained. “Dean.”

“Jeez, Cas. You took your damn time!” The switchovers were making Dean dizzy, but at least Misha hadn’t seized this time. Either it was because he’d been prepared for something to happen, or because Dean hadn’t forced Cas out by praying.

Castiel tilted his head. “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. The vessel wasn’t damaged.”

“You still owe me an explanation, and why don’t you talk to Misha while you’re at it?”

“Inhabiting an occupied vessel isn’t simple, Dean. Some connections only develop over time, and I have been suppressing most of my instincts to keep myself hidden. Now that his memory has returned, I will adapt to the situation accordingly. However, it will take some time.”

“Why talk to us at all, then?”

Castiel’s gaze was unwavering, nothing like the light and flighty shift of emotions and thoughts in Misha’s. “I, as you say, owed you an explanation. I didn’t want you to think that I was ignoring your prayer.”

Dean stared at the table. It wasn’t all that interesting, but what the hell. “Can you hear everything while you’re in there?”

“If I chose to. It makes you uncomfortable?”

“Dude, just forget about it.” Dean made the mistake of looking up again. He cleared his throat. “So Misha’s explanation – was that accurate?”

“In broad terms, yes. He did not need… reconstructing, as he put it, but souls in that dimension are very curious. I was relieved I was able to communicate.”

“But he’ll be fine. I mean, you’ve had experience.” Okay, no that sounded messed up.

Castiel didn’t seem to notice – but then he never did. “Yes, Dean. He will be fine.”

“Why are you out here now, anyway?”

“It is necessary. A vessel doesn’t tire, but the human soul needs rest.”

Dean picked at a chapped piece of wood sticking out of the table. He should probably be surprised that it was wood when it came to motel rooms, really. “This is messed up.”

“Why? You never felt uncomfortable around Jimmy.”

“I didn’t know Jimmy – I mean, I’ve only met the dude once, and for not more than 24 hours, and you weren’t there.”

Castiel didn’t look like he understood what Dean was getting at. “Jimmy was with me ever since I revealed myself to you in Bobby Singer’s barn.”

“I mean, I knew about the vessel-thing.” Dean waved his hand vaguely at Cas, looking so unfamiliar without his trenchcoat and cheap suit. “I guess I just never thought of you that way.”

“This vessel is almost identical to Jimmy.”

“That’s not it. I don’t know, Cas, okay? Just drop the damn subject.”

Castiel’s brow wrinkled in a tiny frown that indicated he was still puzzled by something, but he didn’t comment on it.

The silence felt just a little awkward. Dean wetted his dry lips. He’d have killed for a beer just then. “So… do you know about the demons?”

The angel gave a miniscule nod. “Yes. I originally assumed they had arrived to examine the disruption caused by my appearance, but they never approached Sibyl Howard’s home.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

Cas seemed to object to the profanity – at least he suddenly looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, though his voice remained level. “I would have returned to an uninhabited area, but I hadn’t anticipated the complications.”

“Hey, we found Misha quickly enough. You could have called, though.”

“I have been here a month, Dean, and I endeavored to keep my presence hidden.”

“Right. Oh. Okay. Why are the demons here, then?”

Cas opened his mouth as if to answer, but ended up blinking instead, looking a bit lost. “Castiel?” It was Misha’s voice.

Dean rose slightly from his chair, leaning forward. “Misha?”

“I apologize, Dean.” Castiel pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. “I am keeping you from sleep. Please, rest.”

“Whoa! Where are you going?” Dean rounded Cas and placed a hand on his chest, then dropped it as he remembered that he was trying to restrain a celestial being hiding under Misha’s cheap and simple black shirt and tanned skin. This was still the guy who’d pulled a demon knife out of his shoulder without so much as a blink, never mind the shitload of stuff that had happened between then and now.

“I won’t go far, Dean.”

Still, Dean wasn’t going to back down that easy. “What was that just now?”

Castiel tilted his head with a small smile. “Sleep, Dean.” And with that, he was gone.

 

Misha wasn’t quite sure which was the more intimidating: blackouts he couldn’t explain or a migraine followed by fuzziness, and then finding himself trapped in his body. There were snatches of a dream at the back of his mind, fading images of something so ludicrous that it couldn’t be real. And here he was, now, wide awake, only he wasn’t. He could hear himself talking, only it wasn’t him. He saw snatches of images from his eyes, but he wasn’t looking.

“Castiel?”

Oh. That had been him, and Misha felt astonishment that wasn’t his own – and then he was flying.

It was glorious.

Misha had never been afraid of flying, per se, but he couldn’t say he was ecstatic about it – but this was so different. He could feel the wind, could feel his muscles moving, feel the air compressed by his movement, felt reality twist and bend in his wake – and then he was outside. The liberating sense of _freedom_ and _energy,_ so much more intense than after a run, was gone, and he didn’t even feel exhaustion to temper the loss.

He still wasn’t in control.

“Castiel?” He wasn’t speaking exactly – his chest remained perfectly still, but his mind’s voice still sounded clear.

“You should rest,” Castiel said, and if Misha _had_ been in control of his body, he might have squeaked. Not only was he actually talking to the angel he’d played for three years, which was incredible in its own right, but he didn’t really hear his voice (or fake voice) – at least, not only. There was a powerful undercurrent of something else. Something breathtakingly beautiful, otherworldly and eternal, something of the angel’s real voice. It was entirely unlike the shrill whine it had been represented as in the TV show – or at least it didn’t sound like it for Misha – and besides, Castiel hadn’t really, physically spoken either. They just stood in the shadow of the motel, like a statue, and were chatting. It was mind-blowing.

And Castiel could probably read his thoughts. “Um, sorry. That was stupid.” Misha wished he’d had a throat to clear. “I’m… Misha.” And he probably knew that.

“I was aware.” Castiel actually sounded faintly amused.

“Is this… normal for you? Chatting with your vessel?”

“I had tried to spare you the burden. I apologize.”

“No, what? Why? You saved my life!”

“Yes. But being a vessel can be… unpleasant. Most of us keep the human soul locked in a dream to protect it.”

Misha was pretty sure Castiel could feel his instant adversity to that plan. “Not going to happen. And I have this feeling you didn’t do it with Jimmy, either.”

“I must have been unlike my brothers and sisters even then.”

“It’s not a bad thing.”

This time, Castiel moved, and Misha felt the familiar restrained smile coming to his face. “Dean would agree. You still require rest.”

“Fair enough. Let’s get back inside once Dean’s fallen asleep and crash on the sofa. I’m not standing here all night.”

“You will not feel cold, or any change in your physical position.”

“I don’t care. Or do you have somewhere to be?”

Castiel hesitated, and Misha caught embarrassment and a flash of a memory – a sunrise above a sea of clouds, a scene of pure beauty and serenity. “I would have gone flying.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing for the entire month?”

Still more embarrassment. “When I could spare the energy.”

Misha smiled, somehow. “Go flying. I can sleep anywhere.”

 

When Misha woke up in the morning, he was resting on the motel sofa, a stiff plastic-y blanket thrown over him. He couldn’t remember getting there, but his memory was filled with images of flying, clean and exhilarating. He lay still for a moment, directing his focus inside. _Castiel?_ He felt a soft nudge as a reply, and a wave of something suspiciously like exhaustion and tiredness. Misha decided to leave the angel alone, stretching and flexing his shoulders – wishing, as he did so, that he could feel the wings.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Misha rolled his eyes at Dean, pushing up from the sofa. “What time is it?” His voice still sounded a little rough from sleep, and Dean looked a little freaked for a second, before he visibly shrugged it off.

“We’re heading out early. You can nap in the car.”

“No, I’m good. Oh, coffee.” Misha snatched the paper cup out of Dean’s hand, inhaling the hot steam and ignoring Dean’s pout.

“At least Cas brought you back.”

“Hm, yes.” The coffee turned out to be watery and cheap, but Misha had had worse on set – in particular, _cold_ coffee. “He really doesn’t have to be anywhere else.”

“What, the two of you had a powwow?”

Misha smirked at the hunter over the rim of his cup. “We went flying.”

Dean looked astonished, then perplexed. “Dude, what’s the point? Cas just pops in and out of existence.”

Misha shook his head. “He really doesn’t. Maybe he should take you as a vessel once he’s done with me, show you.”

“No way.” Now, Dean actually looked properly disgusted, and busied himself fiddling a lid on a second cup of coffee – Sam’s, presumably. “I’ve had enough of angels wanting to ride my skin.”

“Your loss. Where is Sam?”

“Getting fuel. We’ll be ready to head out as soon as you’re done here.”    

Misha didn’t exactly take a long time in the bathroom. He showered, but he’d discovered that he didn’t need to shave – now that he knew Castiel was using him as a vessel, he also had his explanation for that. Even the showers were for comfort rather than hygiene. Of course, showering in a motel wasn’t the most exhilarating experience. At least the cold water woke him up fully, and he had an excuse to dress into his own clothes again. It wasn’t as though he didn’t appreciate the stuff Sibyl had bought for him, but now that his memory was back, he longed for something familiar, and that T-shirt and sweater jacket were the only thing he had. Though considering he’d died in it, he probably needed to get rid of it.

Dean looked a little freaked when Misha emerged, but visibly swallowed it down and settled into a silence Misha was trying hard not to find awkward. Sam was more outgoing, sticking to the tone of easy friendliness he’d adopted the night before.

“So you’ve been talking to Cas?” he asked at some point during the ride, when Misha had started fidgeting on the backseat. He suddenly didn’t find the Impala all that comfortable anymore, and he wondered if that was something of Castiel bleeding through to the surface.

Misha leant forward to stop himself from shifting around too much. “Yeah, sort of. It’s not like actually talking, you know.”

“You don’t seem to mind being a vessel.”

“I don’t really notice it, to be honest. It’s not like Cas keeps me locked away. I suppose you’ve had the worst possible experience when it comes to vessels.” He knew all about what Lucifer had done to Sam, of course, even the bits Sam’d never told anyone, as far as the scripts had been accurate, but he knew better than to blurt that out.

“So, if Cas asked you right now – you know, when you’re not dying – would you say yes?”

“Um… that’s a good question. I haven’t really thought about that.”

“You don’t have to,” Dean cut in, sounding gruff. “Once Cas is done healing you, he’s getting out.”

Misha exchanged a look with Sam, and they both seemed to think the same thing – why did it bother Dean so much that Castiel had swapped vessels? Misha was practically identical to Jimmy anyway, and _he_ didn’t have a family or anything to get back to.

“Okay, here is how this is going to go down. We’ll drive through town, and when you see a demon, or a couple, give us a shout. Whatever happens, stay inside the car.”

That wasn’t how Misha had imagined the hunt to work, but he had to concede that he wasn’t exactly a fighter or knew how to fire a gun (nor did he particularly want to), so the safest place for him probably was the Impala. He did wonder, though, if being a vessel didn’t offer him more protection that even Sam, Dean or all the warding in the world could. “Okay.”

Dean met his eyes through the rearview mirror, skeptical. “Okay?”

“Yeah, it’s sensible.”

“Or you could ask Cas to move his lazy ass and give us a hand – this could all go down a lot faster with him.”

“I don’t think he’s at full power right now.” Maybe Misha was imagining things, but the angel had made his presence felt a little more during the car ride, but he hadn’t spoken and some part of Misha felt tired even though he’d slept better than in the whole of the last month and was far too excited for sleep.

 

 

 


	5. Crash-landing

## ~ Crash-landing ~

They dropped Sam off at the local police station to find out what they knew about the corpse, after which he would head to the local library to check out the lore, while Dean and Misha went demon hunting. Misha immediately climbed into the front seat for a better view.

They started out at the playground, but it was deserted and still roped off as crime scene. The weather wasn’t exactly marvelous either, and not many people were about. They drove around town for an hour without Misha seeing any demon, and he eventually convinced Dean that they should stop at a café for lunch and warm beverages. Misha knew and liked the café, and would have loved to snuggle up in one of the large, cozy armchairs, but Dean insisted he stayed in the car and went inside to fetch coffee.

Misha had to concede that maybe he had a point. He felt Castiel becoming more and more restless, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before he would need to take control of the vessel for a short while. It was probably better if that didn’t happen while other people were around.

He dug out his mobile while he waited, and considered texting Sibyl to tell her that he was okay, that he’d gotten his memory back and was leaving, but decided against it. She was a kind woman, and she didn’t need to get dragged into this supernatural chaos. Besides, people who knew the Winchesters had a track record of dying bloody. Hell, _he_ ’d died bloody, and he hadn’t even known he’d met the actual Winchesters.

Dean was taking his sweet time with the coffee. Misha stretched his legs – there was enough space so he actually could, probably for Sam’s benefit. Without warning, he found himself suddenly in the metaphorical backseat of his mind, and Castiel had pushed to the fore.

“There is something wrong,” the angel said, and Misha could feel the vibrations in his voice box.

“What’s going on?”

Castiel, however, ignored him. Without opening the car door, he slid sideways through the dimensions and stood outside, head cocked as he listened to something Misha couldn’t hear.

Then, there was a brilliant white flash that blanked out his vision, a heavy weight settling on him – and then Misha knew nothing for a very long time.

 

Dean saw the flash of light out of the corner of his eyes as he was browsing the pie selection and was outside even before an excited huddle of customers could congregate at the window facing the street. The Impala stood at the curb, not a scratch on her, though rocking slightly. There were no burn marks, but a heavy tang of sulfur in the air, and Misha wasn’t inside the car anymore.

“Cas?! Dammit!” Dean kicked the nearest tire in frustration, mentally apologizing to his baby for the abuse. He climbed in behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. “Dammit, Cas, Castiel, if you can hear me, you better get your ass back here right this instant or God help me…”

Nothing happened.

“Okay, I _really_ hope you can’t hear me, or you can’t come back, because something napped you, and not because you’re being a dick. If you _can_ hear me: I’m getting you out, buddy, just hang in there. Me and Sammy, we’re coming and we’ll get you back.”

Dean drove to the library, probably breaking a speed limit here and there, to find Sam already waiting. He climbed into the front seat immediately. “That flash of light was visible all over town, what happened? Where’s Misha?”

“Something took Cas. Demons, probably, from the smell. Any idea how they did it?”

To Dean’s surprise, his brother’s face went from horrified to pensive very quickly. “Uh, one, maybe. I’ve been trying to find out what could interest the demons in this place all of a sudden, and I think it links back to Cas’ appearance after all.

“There is this ancient legend – and I mean really ancient, as in Egyptian, but it’s corroborated by lore in all kinds of cultures. Still, it’s fairly cryptic, and probably metaphorical, but get this: Legend says that Seth killed his brother Osiris and scattered his parts all over, apparently creating the afterlife in progress. We know that that’s no way to kill a pagan god, but there’s still probably a kernel of truth: There’s tons of lore on separating essences, or souls, from bodies – we’ve seen it happen. So the idea is there’s another way to trap angels, besides holy fire. I guess Cas never mentioned it because it’s basically impossible to swing – you’d need a lot of power, like really a lot–”

“Spare me the lecture, Sammy!” Dean cut in, not bothering to conceal his impatience. “The demons have Cas, and Misha says he’s not at full power – hell, he hasn’t been since we got back from Purgatory.”

“It’s possible to separate an angel from his vessel – not just zap him back to Heaven, like the angels did that time with Cas and Jimmy, but pull him out and keep him trapped. Apparently you’d have to tap into another dimension to do it, though, which is what got me interested – what if Cas left behind a crack when he came through, and the demons have been trying to use that power? Like that corpse – and abandoned demon vessel, of course, but maybe it was a trial run, not as voluntary as we thought.”

“Okay, let’s run with that. So, worst case, Cas got torn out of Misha and is trapped.”

“Worst case, the demons have them both. If we’re lucky, the ritual didn’t work properly Cas managed to get back to Heaven. At any rate, they have Misha, and he’s a vessel. Who knows what they’ll want to do to him.”

“We’re probably talking vivisection. Great. Frigging great.” Dean slammed his palm against the wheel. “So what now? How do we find them?”

“They can’t be too far away, in town, probably. The ritual doesn’t work long-distance. Or we could summon–”

“We’re not summoning a demon, Sam!”

“No, I agree, it’s probably a bad idea if we tell them that we’re after them. Find a way to trace the spell, then?”

“Or trace Misha. Or Cas.”

 

Research was tedious, and Dean was fuming. With every tick of the clock, unspeakable things could be happening to Cas – and Misha, of course. Dean had no idea if the lack of a vessel made Cas more vulnerable, or less, or if he could get back into his previous empty one now that he’d been torn from Misha. He didn’t even know if Misha could survive without Cas’ healing powers. He really wanted to punch something – preferably the demons responsible.

He’d tried praying from time to time, but there was never any answer, so either Castiel was cut off, or he had no way of getting free on his own – both options were terrifying. Dean even would have taken a bit of Cas’ window-shattering, vessel-less real voice just to know the angel was okay.

He let his chin slip from his hand and dropped his forehead on the lorebook with a groan. “Anything?”

“Summoning rituals only seem to work on angels in vessels, but angel lore is so convoluted…”

“Yeah, I get it. We should write a Manual on the Care and Feeding of Your Angel.”

Sam rolled his eyes and pushed a book over. “I might have a way to locate Misha, though. We’ll need something of his.”

“All of his stuff is in that bag there.” Dean had brought it with him when they’d parked the Impala and reclaimed their motel room without even knowing why – it didn’t seem right to leave it in the car, somehow.

“Something from his own dimension would probably work best.”

“Yeah, and of course he wore his own clothes today. Just our luck.”

“Dean, just take a look.”

“Just go through his things?”

“Dude, this is a case. It’s not like you haven’t done this before.”

Dean pushed away from the table and opened the zipper on Misha’s bag reluctantly. Somehow, it felt as though he were going through Cas’ stuff, and he wasn’t touching that one with a ten mile pole. Who knew what an angel considered personal effects.

Misha’s, however, were depressingly normal, and there wasn’t a lot. No wonder the guy had packed so quickly. In a small interior bag, Dean found a ring of keys.

“Car keys? They look used.”

“Yes, they’ll work!”

 

Misha came to slowly. The first thing he noticed was a sense of profound loss and loneliness, as if someone had gone and carved out part of his soul. Between discovering that he was sitting in total darkness, leaning against a wooden wall, it took him a moment to realize that it was Castiel – the angel was gone.

Misha’s memory came rushing back, and with it the relief that at least he was still alive. Castiel hadn’t known if he’d healed Misha enough to be able to leave him just the night before, and though it had been a month, the angel had been weakened considerably. It was probably sheer luck that he hadn’t been reduced to a gibbering mess with brain damage because of oxygen deprivation, or, worse, to a bloodless shell. Still, the lack of angelic power thrumming through his veins left him feeling cold and shivery. Or maybe that was just fear.

Misha pushed himself up to his hands and knees, and promptly banged his head. He reached out and found a wooden ceiling just a few inches above his head, then four walls, far enough apart that he could crawl a few inches and turn without problems, but not enough to stretch out or stand up. They’d thrown him into a box. Just fantastic.

Still, Misha supposed it could have been worse. Like a torture rack. Or a coffin. At least, in the darkness, he was safe from the demons, and he would know when they came for him. He sat back against the wall he’d woken up against, hoping that it wasn’t the lid, and pulled his legs under him in a loose lotus seat, forcing the tension out of his shoulders. It wouldn’t do to panic. Unless Castiel had abandoned him when _whatever_ had happened, and Misha didn’t think he would, the Winchester brothers were coming, and then the demons would have hell to pay.

 _Hey, Castiel? No idea if you can hear me, but if you can, I’m still here. Tell Dean not to forget about me._ He had no idea if Cas could hear prayers that were just thoughts, not spoken words – it had never been like that in the show, of course, because nobody could hear thoughts on TV – but he didn’t really want to alert anyone to the fact that he was awake. And besides… Misha ran a hand over his throat. It was starting to ache slightly, like he was developing a sore throat or had pulled a muscle, but Misha couldn’t feel any damage, and, God, that was a relief.

For a second, he could see Virgil’s knife flashing in the darkness before him, and he’d pressed his back into the corner of the box before he was even able to process the panic attack as what it was. Dragging in a deep, shuttering breath, Misha pulled himself back into the present. It wasn’t necessarily less scary, but at least he was still alive. Castiel had probably not even talked about physical damage when he’d insisted that Misha wasn’t ready yet. He’d probably been keeping the flashbacks, the panic, the crippling terror in check. And now he was gone.

“God, Cas…” Misha whispered – or rather, he tried to. The effort to speak made his throat burn, and no sound emerged. _Oh, God, no!_

 

The ritual was archaic and strange, and once they were done, they’d only succeeded in turning Misha’s car keys jet-black. It turned out that, if you put them in a bowl of holy water, they floated like they were made of air, and constituted an excellent compass. It wasn’t exactly well-suited for a car ride, and Dean had to slow the Impala to a crawl that had horns blaring all around them and strung his nerves tighter with every stretch of road, but it did the job.

Eventually, after _hours_ , they rolled to a stop in front of an abandoned house at the outskirts of town. Night was falling, but the keys turned compass pointed unerringly towards the building. They left to small bowl in the trunk when they geared up – the whole nine yards. Salt guns, holy water, holy oil (just in case), pure iron knifes, the demon knife, angel blade. Sam even shoved a spray bottle into his pocket.

“This is probably a trap, right?”

“You’re saying we leave Cas in there?”

Sam shook his head immediately. “Of course not. But if they know who they took, they know we’re coming.”

“Maybe they don’t.” Dean slammed the trunk shut with more force than was strictly necessary. “They should have learned by now not to mess with our angel. I swear, if Crowley is behind this, I will rip him apart and feed his bones to the crows.”

 

Misha had no idea how long it had been. He had forced himself to retreat into his mind, apply the meditation techniques he’d never fully forgotten, and had shut reality out. He didn’t manage to blank out his mind, but at least he could focus on the nice things. Like flying. Or his high school girlfriend. Or playing Castiel. Or fan conventions.

His bubble burst when the lid of his box was wrenched away with a screeching sound like nails ripping out of wood – which was probably exactly what it was, but Misha couldn’t see a thing against the sudden too-bright glare of ordinary ceiling lights.

He blinked, and his vision adjusted just in time for him to get a glimpse of the demon’s blacked-out eyes before the man snatched his arm and wrenched him out of the box and to his feet, where Misha came to a wobbling stand-still. He was pretty sure he’d seen that demon before, but it was hard to tell now their true faces were hidden from him, but he probably had less chance for survival if he let on that he was just the vessel.

The demons had to know by now that they had done… something to Castiel, but perhaps it was better to make them think that they had not succeeded in severing angel from vessel fully. Misha tore his arm away, standing a little straighter, summoning Castiel’s forceful presence. If the demons noticed how sudden the change was, they didn’t let on.

There were two of them, a man and a woman, and they looked human, their demonic nature all but hidden. Misha hoped their vessels were dead, and not trapped in there. Knowing that it would do nothing, and might cost him, but desperate to stall, Misha pressed his hand hard against the male demon’s forehead, faking confusion when nothing happened.

The demon let out a chuckle, and wrenched Misha’s arm behind his back. Misha gasped, but the air hissed out of his mouth without sound, accompanied only by a tearing pain somewhere in his throat.

The demons wouldn’t be led to gloating, gaining him time, perhaps encouraged by the fact that Misha didn’t say a word, nor did he put up much of a struggle – for one, he was no match for the demons’ supernatural strength, and for another, he was fighting down a panic attack.

They manhandled him across a hallway and down a steep staircase into a cellar, the stench of which made Misha recoil. They forced shackles on him that were edged with some sort of sigil that had no effect on Misha, of course, but the metal felt colder than normal, harsh and biting into his wrists, while his shoulders strained against the contortion. Misha was pretty sure that it would have hurt a lot more if Castiel had still been there.

Then, the demon possessing the woman pushed him into the middle of the room with such force that Misha tripped, falling to his knees, and a fire soared up, circling him. Misha recoiled into the middle of the circle out of pure instinct. The fire was much higher than it should by all rights have been, but it was burning perfectly steady and consistently – holy oil. Misha remained where he was, with his head down, and hoped that he’d been put here because the demons were convinced he was still part angel. The fire was scary, but he could jump over it if he needed to, and if it singed his jeans a little, that was the least of his problems. So long as the demons believed him to be incapacitated, he had an advantage. Maybe.

“We’ve broken him,” the woman said with a sneer that was inhuman.

“Yes, but it didn’t work. He is still part angel.”

“His grace is gone. That’s as good as perfect.”

“No. We have to impress the King.”

 _King_? Misha perked up. Surely they couldn’t be talking about Crowley? And if they were, what was the demon up to? Torturing angels? Misha wished he hadn’t missed what amounted to several seasons – and then remembered that in his universe, half the crew was probably dead, _he_ certainly was, and yes, he was just a recurring, but Cas’ fight with Raphael had been a major plotline, and the show had probably been cancelled. And yes, he was getting just the slightest bit hysteric.

_Cas, wherever you are, I hope you can hear me. I hope you’re okay._

Misha’s problems didn’t really matter here, they were all just petty concerns. He remembered how dismissive he’d been towards the crew when he’d had a bad day on set, eager to just get away – and his last day had been particularly horrible. They’d been forced to shoot into the night, shooting his coverage of several scenes that hadn’t even been on the schedule in a single take to make up for the time they’d lost with J2 – or rather, Dean and Sam – ruining one take after the next earlier. He wasn’t usually like that – he really wasn’t, or tried not to be, but sometimes he just couldn’t help it. The atmosphere on set was never really ideal – but who was he to complain? In this universe, the entire crapload of stuff that had happened in the show had actually happened to the brothers and Cas, plus a whole lot more. They were fighting real odds. Saving the world. Now that he was slap-bang in the middle of it, his entire existence seemed fleeting and insignificant, and yet Castiel – an angel – had seen fit to save him. The least he could do to redeem himself was save Cas in return.

The demons were circling the ring of fire in some sort of macabre, threatening dance. “So, we try again?”

“Let’s give it more time. Maybe the process takes longer with angels.”

Eventually, they retreated into a corner and just stood there, unnaturally still, their unblinking gaze fixed on Misha. It was incredibly eerie and uncomfortable, but Misha forced himself to remain just as inhumanly still, though he allowed himself to slump a bit to take the strain off his shoulders. His throat burned like fire.

 

 


	6. Chained to a Comet

## ~ Chained to a Comet ~

He heard the commotion at the same time as the demons, and saw no reason not to twist around to look towards the stairs.

“CAS!” Dean’s voice boomed through the building, and Misha wished he could tell him ‘Here!’ or at least knew where Castiel actually was trapped, but the pain in his throat had gotten progressively worse and it now felt as though someone was putting constant pressure against his larynx _and_ pouring acid down his throat. Even swallowing had become agonizing.

The demons, however, didn’t think to wait to be found. Instead, they rushed up the stairs with unthinking, feral anger, and seconds later, Misha heard gunfire, saw two short flashes of light. And then Dean came thundering down the stairs.

His look of relief and horror was so profound that Misha knew, instantly knew, that he thought he was seeing Castiel. He tried to loosen up, show that it was just him, that Cas was still trapped somewhere else, but after hours of sitting in the same position and forcing himself not to move or flinch, it was easier thought than done.

“Cas, are you okay?” Dean pulled off his leather jacket and beat a gap into the ring of holy fire, pulling Misha to his feet.

His legs protested against the sudden movement and he staggered into Dean, who caught him as if this was normal, steading hands coming to rest on his elbows.

“Jeez, what are these?” He shifted Misha around, clearly not trusting him to remain on standing on his own, and began to fiddle with the handcuffs onehandedly. Misha let him – he didn’t trust his legs either.

“Cas? You’re safe. I’ve got you, buddy. There.”

The handcuffs clicked open, and Dean gently brought Misha’s shoulders back into a normal position, peering down to catch Misha’s eyes.

“You’re very pale. Cas? You’re not going to faint on me, are you? The sigils are gone.”

Misha wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t be so worried for him, that he _wasn’t Cas_ , but when he opened his mouth, he felt like choking, and that almost hurled him right back into a panic attack.

Dean’s worry deepened into a visible frown, and he carefully tugged at Misha’s arm. “Come one. Let’s get out of here.”

Misha stumbled after the hunter up the stairs and out into the hallway, where Sam was standing over the corpses of the two demons. At the far end, a door had been kicked down, opening out into the night.

Sam gave him a quick once-over. “Cas? Are you all right?”

Misha shook his head – not in denial, but because he wasn’t Cas, and _couldn’t they see_ , but Sam’s eyes just darkened with sympathy. “Let’s get out of here before someone comes to investigate the shooting. We’ll fix you up at the motel.”

They were going to leave. _They were going to leave!_ Misha pulled away from Dean, and shook his head again.

Dean came after him, his head titled as if to appear less threatening, one hand tentatively reaching out. “Cas? Buddy, it’s okay. It’s us. We’re rescuing you.”

And then Misha had an idea how he could make them see. Make Dean see. The idea was crazy, but his best ideas had been kind of insane, so he could roll with it. And besides, he’d put a lot of thought into this ever since he’d gotten the script that asked for Castiel kissing Meg, especially since that kind of question was sure to crop up at a convention. Castiel was a soldier and an angel. He had watched Earth for eons, but he’d never participated in human interaction. He’d learned kissing from bad porn, and so his kisses where fuelled by lust, rough and fast and powerful. He didn’t know anything else. Misha did.

He took a step towards Dean, slipping past the outstretched hand in as fluid and human a motion as he could manage, right into his personal space, pushed himself up and kissed Dean very carefully, very gently, on the mouth. It was just a peck, maybe a slight, gentle nibble at the hunter’s bottom lip, just because he could, and a soft caress against the stubble on Dean’s cheek.

Dean had frozen in place, his lip only twitching slightly, and when Misha pulled back, he looked so completely flabbergasted he almost went cross-eyed. Misha found it hilarious, but this wasn’t the time or the place. Dean’s tongue dipped out to wet his lip, then he cleared his throat noisily. “Misha?” His voice was an octave too high and croaky as hell, but at least he’d finally gotten it.

Misha nodded a bit too enthusiastically. _YES! Finally._

Dean’s worry slammed back onto his expression, brows drawing together in a dark and dangerous frown. “Where’s Cas?”

Misha shrugged, then vaguely gestured to the rest of the house.

Sam was the next to clear his throat. “What happened to your voice?”

Misha mimed a knife sliding across his throat, though he hated having to do that with every fiber, and shrugged again. So maybe he’d lost his voice, but he was okay for now. They needed to find Cas.

 

Misha’s unconventional method of explaining himself left Dean with reeling thoughts, but the fact that Castiel was no longer inside his temporary vessel brought his focus back in an instant. When he’d seen Misha in the ring of holy fire, which was as harmless to humans as any fire, he’d assumed that the ritual had gone wrong, and that angel and vessel were still united. Quite apparently, he had been mistaken, and he had no idea what to look for. How did an angel look like without a vessel, but grounded on Earth? The only snatches of true angelness Dean had ever seen had been nothing but white light, but that had been impossible to contain and so pure that it burned demons to ashes.

In the end, they settled on Sam taking Misha back to the car, even though the actor didn’t seem thrilled. The guy had looked sickly when Dean had pulled him out of the holy fire, and he was getting a little greener with every second he was on his feet – probably going to have a stress reaction. Sam knew how to deal with that while Dean turned the house upside down.

He didn’t have to go far. Just down the hallway, he found a room with boarded windows and no furniture but one chair in the middle of the room, surrounded by another ring of holy fire. On the chair stood what looked like an oversized nightlight. It was a metal box with glass inlays, as if for jewelry, and it was glowing, but the fire almost blanked out the cold, white light in its center.

“Cas?”

It might have been his imagination, but Dean could have sworn that the light shifted and grew a little brighter, a little bluish around the edges.

He stepped in, extinguished the holy fire, and picked the box up. The light wasn’t bright enough to be painful, but the box was strangely warm, almost like the hood of a car in sunlight, and was carved with numerous sigils Dean knew to be directed against angels. He’d seen some of the same on Misha’s handcuffs.

The box wasn’t locked, but he genuinely didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t believe he was holding Castiel in one hand. “Cas? What now? Do I just let you out? What happens if I do? You won’t shatter my eardrums again, will you? Or are you going to zap right back into Misha, because he’s not doing so well.”

Castiel didn’t answer, of course, but the box pulsed slightly in Dean’s hand.

“Okay, you know what? I know this can’t be comfortable for you, with being the size of a skyscraper, but I’ll have to leave you in there for now, buddy. At least until we get back to the motel, or out of town. The police are going to swarm this house any minute.”

He tucked the box into the pocket of his jacket, hoping that it didn’t make things even more unpleasant for Cas, and jogged back to the car.

Sam had Misha installed on the backseat, covered with the light blanket they kept in the trunk. He looked slightly less green and almost comfortable, his knees bent and feet resting against the door paneling, one arm thrown over his eyes carelessly. Sam was in his usual seat, contorting awkwardly and talking to Misha in a soft voice when Dean climbed in. He pulled the box out of his pocket, balancing it on his lap.

Misha lowered his arm and stared at him, hard.

“I found him.”

The actor nodded, his eyes falling shut again.

“Is he okay?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, seems like it. He’s exhausted and not quite there anymore, but there’s no physical trauma. He’ll probably freak out later when it all sinks in.”

If Misha was still listening in on their conversation, he didn’t respond. Dean put Cas’ box onto the backseat with him and tucked the blanket tight to prevent them both from rolling off as soon as he started to car, then turned the key in the ignition.

They drove back to the motel just to clear out their stuff, then headed out of town. Misha was comfortably slumbering in the back by now, curled lightly around the box that held Castiel.

Sam agreed that the sigils were confining the angel to the box, but he had no idea what would happen if they opened it up, either. At any rate, it was probably better to do this when the vessel – Misha – was awake.

“So…” Sam began with a smirk when they were leaving the town sign in the rear view mirror.

“Dude, if you are going to mention the… thing, I swear I will make you walk.” Miraculously, Sam actually shut up, and Dean turned up the radio.

They drove for a couple of miles, then got off the beaten track and headed through a small wood and out into an open, isolated field. They’d spent their nights in worse places, and the Impala was actually kind of comfortable. Besides, this was the perfect place to hash out their angelic problem, far away from unsuspecting civilians and prying eyes.

Dean killed the engine and twisted round to take a good look at Misha. He looked so much like Castiel, sleeping, it was weird as hell. But most importantly, the actor’s hand had curled around the box holding Cas. It wasn’t even a comfortable position, his elbow contorted to an odd angle, as if he’d actively searched the box out for proximity and protection. Maybe it was Dean’s imagination, but the soft glow seemed lazier, less frantic, almost sleepy. And he was most definitely not feeling… no.

“Dude?” Sam prodded his arm, bringing him out of the frankly disturbing train of though. “Should we wake him up or…?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like we have an Angel 101 lying around. Misha might have an idea, but he can’t talk, and neither can Cas, not while he’s in there.”

“Get him out?”

“Yeah. What the hell.” Dean reached around and poked Misha’s arm.

The actor jolted awake so abruptly he almost knocked over Castiel’s box, his stare frightened and wide-eyed. He caught the box, pulling it closer, and looked back at Dean, his gaze now a steely glare.

“Sorry, dude.”

Misha shrugged and dragged a hand over his face, and Dean could see a freak-out lurking just under the surface, but he seemed to pull himself together.

“How’s the throat?”

Misha made a face at him, then focused his attention on Castiel. Dean could swear he’d seen that exact look of absolute fascination on Sam’s face when he’d first put the box on the backseat. It was disgusting. This was _Cas_ , not some bug under a microscope, though he was pretty sure that these two nerds didn’t think of it like that.

“We should let him out”, Sam explained calmly, “Figured you should be awake.”

Misha ran a thumb over the sigils on the lid and nodded. From his expression, he recognized the symbols, and the memory clearly didn’t make him happy. He jerked his head towards the door, then proceeded to climb out of the car, taking Castiel with him as if he were carrying the most fragile and precious jewel in existence. Dean wouldn’t have it any other way.

The night was turning frigid, and Dean pulled his leather jacket around himself. Sam never got cold – and Dean would be damned if he knew how that worked. After all, he had so much more area to lose heat from, right?

Misha set the box down on the hood of the Impala, then stepped back, wrapping his arms around his torso, and looking at Dean with that same expression of expectation he’d displayed after the… thing.

Dean stepped closer, clearing his throat. This felt almost solemn, like they were about to partake in some kind of holy ritual, which was ridiculous. This was just Cas, and Dean had experienced him without vessel before, though it hadn’t been the most glorious moment in their acquaintance. And he certainly hadn’t made much of a deal out of it when he’d possessed Claire Novak and then Jimmy again.

“Right. Here goes nothing.” He reached out from as far away as he could, squinting until his eyes were almost completely closed, and prodded the lid to the box open with his index finger.

Nothing happened.

There was a messy knot of light inside the box, lapping a little over the edges, but very contained and neither like the bluish glow of a grace nor like the burning glare of an angel hulking out. It was pulsing slightly, and Dean got a sense of confusion and hesitation.

“Come on, Cas. It’s just us.”

Still nothing. Dean could have sworn Cas had responded to him before, but now there was not even a flicker.

“Do you think he’s hurt?” Sam asked from somewhere behind him and to the right.

“I have no frigging clue.”

And then, Misha stepped closer, pushing past Dean and reaching out, right into the light. And that was wrong on so many levels.

“What are you doing?”

Misha turned his arm slightly, his face awed, and the light began to travel up his arm – no, it expanded, until it came to a stop right at Misha’s elbow. The actor turned his head away, to look at Dean.

There was something there, something in that blue-eyed gaze that so unlike Cas’ which Dean had a hard time figuring out. An apology maybe? But what was he even apologizing for –

However, Misha had already turned back toward the glob of light that was Castiel, and it was as though a heavy hush descended on them, three humans and an angel, four insignificant beings in the entire universe coming into sync with their planet, all the spheres, their rotation around the sun, the dance of the milky way singing in the perfect starscape above their heads, and it was beautiful and perfect.

And then Misha tilted his head back, and whispered “Yes.” and as the light grew brighter and brighter and even larger the actor called out “Yes!” over the rising of a high-pitched whine.

Dean had never seen anything so gorgeous, and even though he knew what was happening somewhere in the back of his mind, he found it impossible to tear his gaze away – until Misha’s frame sank in on itself at his waist and he stumbled back a few steps, completely enveloped in light. He stared directly at Dean, his eyes and mouth streaming brightness –

“Shut your eyes. Shut your eyes!”

His voice had oscillated between Misha’s and Cas’, but Dean obeyed in an instant, turning away and throwing his arm over his eyes.

The light still burned into his retinas, seemingly all around them, and Dean only blinked his eyes open again when he was certain that it had well and truly faded, and the whine – Cas’ real voice, or whatever – was also gone. He was just in time to see Misha or Cas, or both, crumble as if someone had cut their strings, and to catch them before they crashed to the ground.

“Cas? Hey, Castiel? Misha?” Dean patted his cheek, but the eyes of the vessel or angel or whatever he was now remained stubbornly shut, his face completely lax and his hair as mussed as it had been when Castiel had first walked in on them in that barn.

“A little help here, Sammy?”

His sasquatch of a brother stepped in immediately, rubbing his eyes with one hand and helping to support Misha with the other until they had him settled back down in the backseat.

“Now what?”

 

They decided on catching two hours of sleep each while one of them watched over Castiel, but the angel remained stubbornly unconscious, and then ended up calling Garth, who sent them the coordinates of a log cabin he kept for hunters to use. It wasn’t a long drive, but far enough out in the country for no neighbors to be around to notice anything strange and bring the police down on them.

Dean thought it looked like it could be a haunted building from the outside, but it was surprisingly cozy with three small bedrooms and a living area slash kitchen that had tins of ravioli – and those went down a treat because Dean was starving.

There was also plenty of salt, and a Devil’s Trap on the ceiling above the door.

They installed Castiel on the sofa for the time being, wrapped in a blanket for warmth – because that was the only thing the cabin didn’t have to offer – but the angel didn’t show any reaction to his surroundings whatsoever.

Dean was beginning to find it worrisome, but then Castiel had been out longer after that trip to the past that had drained him so much. By mid-morning, they’d both had a good night’s sleep, which was definitely a plus, and Castiel had turned over out of his own accord and was now on his side, snoring slightly.

He woke up when Dean settled down in one of the armchairs, plonking his feet on the coffee table. Dean instantly knew it was Castiel, and he was determined not to be fooled by Misha’s acting ever again. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

Castiel sat up, moving slowly and stiffly. He brought a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose for a moment before he looked up at Dean with tired eyes. “We have relocated.”

“Yeah, it’s one of Garth’s hideouts. Sorry about the cold. We didn’t want to bother getting a fire going last night.”

“Dean,” Cas said simply, and there were a myriad of meanings in that word and Dean had no frigging idea how he should respond to that.

“So, how are you, Cas?”

The angel avoided his gaze. “I feel… tired. Drained. Tense.”

“Was it the sigils? How did they cram you in that box, anyway?”

“I would prefer not to talk about it.”

“Fine, I’m not pushing. But you’ll tell me, so we can keep it from happening in the future?”

“You have my word.” Castiel said it with such gravitas that Dean had shivers running down his spine.

“Uh… so do you want breakfast or anything…?”

“I just need to rest.”

“We could give the TV a try? It’s a crappy old thing, but maybe we’ll get some signal.”

Cas managed a soft smile under heavy-lidded eyes. “I would like that.”

Dean attempted a bit of aimless chatter while he fiddled with the TV – it was easier when his back was turned on Cas – but apart from a very short answer to “How’s Misha?” (“Sleeping.”) Cas didn’t respond. By the time there was a flickering, black and white image on the screen, Castiel had sunken back against the cushions and was asleep once more.

Dean left a note for Sam and went for a grocery run. The cabin was as good a place as any to stay until they had sorted this mess out. It was cheaper and more private than a motel, for sure, and Cas would have all the time to rest and heal Misha, and then they could send the actor on his way and get on with business as usual – which, these days, meant finding a way to close the gates of Hell and, particularly as far as Castiel was concerned, helping people.

He came back to Misha, now wearing a simple shirt – wine-red this time – lounging on the sofa with a cool wet towel over his eyes and a glass of water by his side and the TV running on some sort of documentary with a dull voice-over and pretty pictures that somehow lost their appeal without color.

Sam was sitting at the table, sorting through his notes and scribbling something here and there. The prison box was at his side, and his nerdy little brother had probably already copied each sigil into their notes. Maybe they really should write a Guidebook to Angelcare.

“Morning,” he greeted Misha, giving the actor’s legs a friendly pat as he dumped his shopping on the coffee table.

Misha grumbled something unintelligible and didn’t budge otherwise.

“Sandwiches?”

“Yeah, great,” Sam said from the other side of the room at the same time that Misha let out a groan and pulled the towel off his face.

“Can’t you let a guy die in peace?”

If he hadn’t been so obviously overacting, Dean would have been worried. “Aw. What’s up?”

“A migraine from hell, apparently,” Sam supplied, snatching himself a sandwich and flopping onto an armchair with such force that Dean half expected it to collapse.

He took his own snack and settled down opposite. “Cas said you were sleeping earlier. Just go back?”

Misha looked like he wanted to frown, but thought better of it. “Would if I could. But Cas is out like a light and here I am.”

“What, you can’t sleep at the same time?”

Misha shrugged. “What do I know? It’s not like we had a lot of vessel-angel interaction on the show.”

“He’s alright, though – isn’t he?”

The actor’s expression softened instantly. “Yes. Yeah, sorry. I shouldn’t have been so flippant. He’s exhausted, but he’s alright.”

Dean had no idea why Misha was apologizing, and that look before Misha had said ‘yes’ to Cas wouldn’t leave him alone, but he figured he could worry about that later. For now – food.  

Sam was half-way through his second sandwich when his mobile buzzed. The noise made Misha moan and Dean choke on his food, but Sam fluidly pushed himself out of the chair, which croaked in protest, and let himself out, taking the call with his latest alias.

“That’s probably the police in Pontiac? They’ll have found the bodies by now,” Misha murmured, his eyes still mostly closed.

“You’re taking it incredibly well. Sam expected you to freak out the moment you had time to think it through.” Dean picked at the salad leaf in his sandwich. The shop hadn’t had any without, and it was supposed to be good for you, but he really couldn’t see the appeal.

“Truth is, I was freaking out. You know, thinking you’re about to get killed – kinda scary. But, um, Cas seems to be helping.”

It occurred to Dean then that he didn’t really want all that detail. It was one thing to talk like that with Sam, even with Cas, but he’d only known Misha for a total of two days, and that was no time at all when it came to having a touchy-feely heart-to-heart. He cleared his throat. “We should… err… we should maybe talk about, you know, the thing.”

Misha’s eyes opened a little wider and he looked at Dean curiously. “The thing?”

“Yeah. You know. What you did back there.” Suddenly, the salad leaf wasn’t all that boring.

“The kiss?”

Dean shrugged abortively.

“Well, it was either that or making faces at you until you realized I wasn’t Castiel – I figured the kiss was faster. Hang on.” Misha pushed himself up on his forearms. “Don’t tell me the fans are actually right?!”

Dean didn’t understand what that had to do with anything, until he remembered Chuck’s fanbase. “Oh, God, no, I am not – Sam’s my brother, okay?” he exclaimed at the same time as Misha said: “You’re in love with Castiel?”

They both stared at each other, until Dean tore his gaze away, blinking. He’d never been able to stare into those eyes for too long, never mind that Cas wasn’t really there right now. “What?”

“What?” Misha took only a moment longer to look away, picking at the discarded towel. “Um. Never mind. I forgot the _Supernatural_ fanbase in this universe never got introduced to the angel storyline.”

“What do you mean I’m–”

“Nothing, forget it. Really, forget it. Not one to pry.” Misha sank back down and looked at the ceiling. “Actually, no, that’s a lie. Totally one to pry, but it’s none of my business. Forget I said anything.”

Sam picked that moment to come back inside, and Dean had never been more grateful for his brother’s existence.

Sam fiddled with his cell, before sliding it back into his pocket. “So the police have found the bodies and thought we might be interested in the cultish set-up they had going. Maybe one of us should drive down and watch out for more demons turning up, now that we have an invite.”

Dean nodded. “Okay, yeah. Don’t want this thing to happen again.”

“Right. I’ll go then?”

“Yeah, that would be best. I’ll drop you off in town, find a less conspicuous car?”

“Yeah.”

Somehow, this conversation was turning very awkward very fast. Dean turned to Misha, who thankfully had closed his eyes again. “You’ll be alright on your own for a while?”

“Hey, I got on perfectly well for an entire month, and that was without my memory. Just go already. And bring back a box of aspirin.”

 

 

 


	7. Nesting

## ~ Nesting ~

When Dean came back about an hour later, Castiel was watching TV. He had his head tilted inquisitively, completely focused on the screen. And was that…? “Dude – are you watching porn?”

Cas didn’t even blink. “It is very… engaging.”

Dean took a closer look at the black and white flicker of an image as he set the pills he’d brought out of the car for Misha down on the coffee table – and did a double take. “Gay porn? You’re watching gay porn? Really? _Gay porn_?”

Castiel’s eyes left the screen for just a second to meet his. “I am an angel. Gender is of no consequence to me.”

Dean didn’t really know what to make of that statement. He just decided to roll with his original retort. “How did you even find that?”

“I believe the process is called channel-surfing. It is hardly complex, Dean.” The angel was looking past Dean at the screen again.

Dean tried his best to ignore the sounds coming from the TV behind his back. “Dude, _why_?”

“Misha seemed to think I might find it interesting.”

“ _Interesting_.”

“That was the term he used, yes.”

The TV moaned.

“Jesus! Cas, turn it off!”

Castiel did so immediately, using his angel mojo somehow and not even bothering to find the remote. Dean let out the breath he couldn’t remember holding.

“I apologize. It is not appropriate to watch pornography in company.”

Castiel still sounded so perplexed by that, so much like he was thinking just how strange humans were that Dean smiled despite himself. “No, Cas, it’s not.” He gave the angel a friendly pat on the shoulder, and Castiel’s attention was now focusing on him. It should have made him nervous, perhaps, but he found that it didn’t. Dean supposed he had gotten used to Cas’ observing over the time they’d known each other. He’d even missed it a little in Purgatory, where Castiel had often seemed so distant, so distracted. “I bet Misha is laughing his ass of in there.”

“He is resting. Why would he find the situation amusing?”

“We need to work on your sense of humor, Cas.” Dean settled down in his armchair.

Castiel adapted a far-away look. “I used to be very fond of Enochian puns. Unfortunately, they do not translate very well into English.”

“Like the fake exorcism with the goat the Whore made up?”

“Yes, though that wasn’t very sophisticated.”

“Hit me, then. What’s a sophisticated Enochian pun?”

Castiel sat for a moment in silence, thinking, then rattled off an Enochian phrase.

“Okay…”

“It… it translates to ‘Your presence aligns the universe’. I fear the depth of meaning is lost in translation.”

“Huh. That actually sounds kinda romantic.”

The corners of Castiel’s lips twitched. “It is a pun on flying, and identity.”

“Woah, okay. I get it, it’s funnier in Enochian.”

Castiel was smiling at his hands now. “Yes.”

Dean really didn’t want to ruin the light moment, but after the comfortable silence turned slightly less easy, he felt compelled to break it and couldn’t come up with anything better than: “How are you doing, Cas?”

The angel looked up again with a sigh. “I’m fine, Dean. The sigils did not have a lasting effect – I do not believe they would have confined me to such a great degree if the ritual had not come beforehand.”

“That nasty, eh?”

“It was unpleasant.” Castiel looked vaguely uneasy, almost angry. “I would not wish it to happen to any of my brothers and sisters.”

“We’ll make sure it won’t. Sam figures it is somehow connected to a rift between realities or something, which sound a lot like science fiction, but I guess we’ve seen stranger.”

“Being tethered to Earth without a vessel was peculiar,” Cas said as an apparent non-sequitur.

“Well, now that Jimmy’s gone, you won’t have that problem anymore, right? You have your own body now. Don’t get me wrong, it’s sad about the poor guy, he was okay, I guess, didn’t really get to know him, but it _has_ to be damn convenient. I guess Misha’s going to be glad, too.”

Castiel rolled his head to look at him, and there was something peculiar in that gaze, something Dean couldn’t pin down – and, hell, that seemed to happen to him a lot lately, but the angel said nothing.

“I mean, being stuck on Earth can’t be all bad? You didn’t even want to go to Heaven. And besides, it’s not like you would have been trapped like that if those demons hadn’t crammed you into that box, right?” Dean was aware that maybe he was rambling, but he really didn’t like that expression on Castiel’s face. Like the angel was closing off.

Unexpectedly, Castiel rose to his feet. “It was a question of having the choice, Dean. Free will is still a new concept for me, but I have come to realize why humans value it so highly.”

“Oh, okay. I’m not keeping you.” And that sounded kind of wrong when he said it out loud, but Castiel’s expression had already darkened and he disappeared before Dean could explain himself.

 

The torrent of emotion jolted Misha out of his blissful slumber, but he really wasn’t ready to take back control of his body just yet – he was far too tired for that. Besides, they were somewhere he didn’t recognize – somewhere outside, and there was a noise nearby that could have been a waterfall. There were trees all around, trees and rocks, and it was wet and cold.

That Misha could feel discomfort even with Castiel inside him was a sign that the angel was still not quite running at full power, though the reunion had helped them both – but then, the entirety of _Castiel_ inside his body radiated discomfort, and it wasn’t physical.

Misha sighed and settled down for the strange kind of interior dialogue he had with Cas. He loved to talk, yes, but what he really did best was listen. “What did Dean do?”

Cas seemed perplexed enough by the question that he quit staring at a tree as if it were the most fascinating thing in the entire world and began moving through the forest at a slow pace, keeping parallel to the sound of speedy, rushing water. “Why would you assume it was he?”

“It’s always Dean with you. Hey, don’t forget I was you for three seasons. I probably know more about you than anyone else. They… they forwarded me the script early, because it had so many lines – of course I never got around to actually shooting it, but… _Everything he sacrificed, and I was about to ask him for more_?” The voice-over script had been incredibly powerful just reading it, now it felt decidedly eerie – especially when Misha sensed the remorse coursing through Castiel.

“Well, how could I have?”

“Don’t you think that’s what a relationship is about? Mutual sacrifices?”

Castiel didn’t answer.

“Hey, I’m not judging. But don’t you think Dean deserves to choose? So he chooses to stick with you, and you don’t understand why or how? I bet he’s thinking the same about you. Just promise me you’ll go to him when you really need help.”

Castiel’s quiet acquiescence was probably all Misha was going to get, but he was absurdly glad about it. Maybe, just maybe, in all the time he had missed, Cas had actually gotten closer to understanding what he was trying to tell him.

“Dean doesn’t seem to be… comfortable around me while you are my vessel.”

“Whatever he said, I’m sure he didn’t mean to send you away.”

“Misha.” This was the only thing Castiel said, but he’d never used _that_ tone on Misha before, and somehow it seemed so much more powerful without his own voicebox to filter it, so much more angelic and dangerous, and Misha was reminded that Castiel hadn’t just been a soldier, he’d been a commander. He shut up immediately.

Castiel’s next utterance was almost a sigh, breath huffing out of Misha’s chest even though their dialogue was entirely internal. “This does not change the fact that Dean is unaware.”

“We haven’t told him.”

“It is still within the realm of possibility, but I don’t understand the discomfort.”

“From Dean’s point of view, you’re in the wrong body. In a body that’s not yours.”

“Neither was Jimmy’s.”

“Hey, I’m not saying it’s logical. It’s just he associates you with Jimmy’s body. That’s _you_ for him. It’s… easier, for humans. He likes _you_ – as in, your character, your essence, but when he thinks of you he sees Jimmy’s body. Trenchcoat and all. He knows it’s just a vessel, but it’s an unconscious thing, you know?”

“Your body is practically identical to Jimmy’s,” Castiel replied, puzzled and almost a little petulantly.

“Remind me to ask you what is different when we have the time.”

“I have no way of being with them without a vessel.”

“I know. Dean knows. He just wants you back the way he knows you. I guess it’s like you decided to wear a different style of clothes and he doesn’t really like them.” That metaphor was surprisingly accurate, even though Misha wasn’t entirely comfortable with the fact that he had just compared himself to a t-shirt and a pair of pants.

He guessed that the fact that he wasn’t exactly dressed like Cas was part of Dean’s discomfort, too. At any rate, it was a constant reminder, but Misha didn’t think it would be fair on the Winchesters just to show up like Cas without telling them first. He also thought that, maybe, if Castiel wanted to, he could get used to wearing that trenchcoat all day – especially since his body temperature seemed to self-regulate as long as the angel was inside him. He might have to insist on a fitting suit, though.

“I do like the coat,” Castiel said.

When Castiel appeared in the corner of the room after Dean had paced the floor anxiously for about an hour, he switched over to Misha so quickly that Dean couldn’t even get a word in edgewise.

Misha cracked a small smile at him, looking suddenly more worn out than the angel had a second ago. “Hi.”

“Damn, this is screwing with my head. Just how much longer does Cas think this will take? We could really use him at full power, to close that dimensional gap or whatever it is, and get you settled in somewhere.”

Misha shot him that look again, and it was making Dean really antsy now. He followed the actor into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of water at the sink.

“Cas knows I didn’t mean for him to go, right? I just meant he doesn’t have to stay if he doesn’t want to. If he wants to stay, that’s fine, too.”

“I’m not your mouthpiece, Dean.”

Dean ran a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly uncomfortable under the stare that wasn’t Cas’. “Yeah, no, man, I know. I just wanted to make sure Cas knows.”

“He knows.”

“Good. That’s… good.”

Misha leant back against the sink, his fingers cupping the glass of water. “Let me ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Why does it make you so uneasy that I’m Castiel’s vessel?”

 _That_ was not what Dean had expected, and he fumbled for an answer. “Well, I figured… eh, he practically ruined Jimmy’s life, you know, dragged him away from his family, and then the poor guy had to go through all that shit that happened to Cas – no offense, Cas. I just figured it would be easier without some civilian getting mixed up in all this, especially now that Cas had Jimmy’s body for himself. Uh, no offense, Misha.”

“Do you think you would even notice if Castiel kept me locked away like Jimmy?”

“I’d still know you’re trapped in there.”

“You didn’t know Jimmy was gone, either.”

Dean didn’t have anything to say to that. No, he hadn’t known. But somewhere along the way he had stopped thinking about Jimmy Novak. There was just Cas – it wasn’t like they had time-shared, like Cas and Misha did. Cas had _been_ that guy in the ill-fitting suit and trenchcoat with the blue eyes and the messy hair. And now he wasn’t. Now that guy was Misha, and Cas was just something inside him. Technically, that had been the case with Jimmy, too, but – God, this was messed up.

Misha broke eye contact to sip at his water, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, aren’t you glad you’ll get back to your life?”

He hadn’t expected Misha to explode, but the actor’s head snapped up, his eyes sparkling fury. “What life?! Your little excursion to my universe ripped it all to pieces, remember? Virgil slaughtered half the crew, and if J2 aren’t dead, your _performance_ has cost them their jobs, the show has probably been cancelled, I am _dead_ , my friends are probably dead, my girlfriend died of fucking _cholera_ years ago because the vaccine _didn’t work_ , and the rest of my family died in a car crash when they were coming out to meet me because I couldn’t come home because I was _shooting_! So don’t tell me I have any life to get back to, because I don’t!”

Dean took a step back out of pure reflex. “Dude, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. Anyway, you can stop feeling so damn sorry about yourself all the time, thinking you don’t have anything or deserve anything, because you do. You just need to stop running from it.” Misha strode over to the sofa and flopped down on it, his shoulders rigid and staring at the TV, which was off and probably didn’t mind taking the brunt of the actor’s rage.

Dean didn’t really know Misha, but he’d had the impression he didn’t get angry easily. Grumpy, yes, sarcastic, definitely, but anger was rare – and it was just as terrifying as Castiel’s. He hung about the kitchen area, pushing plates around and eventually doing the washing up, until he noticed that Misha’s shoulders had slumped and he had melted into the sofa, hiding his face in his hands. He hadn’t expected to hear a low, self-deprecating chuckle that made Misha’s shoulders shake as if he were crying. Perhaps he was. “I’m sorry, J – Dean. The point is, I have nothing to get back to, and I don’t really have the energy left to rebuild it all again, okay? So don’t feel obligated to save me. Unless there is some other reason you don’t want me as Castiel’s vessel.”

Dean didn’t know what startled him more – the fact that, for the first time, Misha had slipped up and had almost called him by fake-his name, or the question, poised with deadly accuracy. “It’s just kinda hard to be… friends with a dude who’s actually two dudes. I mean, I’ve been unloading a lot of shit on Cas, and I just thought…”

“You wouldn’t feel as guilty about it if it was just Cas?” Misha craned his head to look over the backrest of the sofa back at Dean. “Who are you kidding? Dean, if we do this, if Cas wants to keep me as his vessel, you have my full approval to act around him as you always have. I figure out a way to turn my back. Fair warning, though, you might see more of me than you did of Jimmy.”

“But it’s _your_ body.”

Misha shifted around even more. “You don’t get it, do you? You’ve had too many angels telling you what to do and wanting to take you over. This is not how angelic vessels are supposed to work. That’s how _demonic_ vessels work. Granted, some of Cas’ brothers and sisters seem to forget that, but it is supposed to be a relationship. Mutual consent, mutual sacrifices. Remember that Cas promised to keep Jimmy’s family safe in exchange for using his body? And he did, even back then when he didn’t really understand humans, even after he’d been dragged back to Heaven and fed the company line. He honored the promise and took Jimmy back instead of staying in Claire because he _asked_. I trust Castiel. I have no family to miss me, no friends to keep safe. If Cas will have me, all I ask is that I don’t get shut away in some fantasy world inside my head unless I want to. That I get the opportunity to be me just for a little while occasionally, and that he uses my body to help. Help you. Help keep the world safe. To be himself.” Misha looked away. “I’ve always believed that it’s the little, random acts by ordinary people that change the world. So this is my random act.”

 

 

 


	8. All our Demons

## ~ All our Demons ~

There was nothing Dean could say to Misha’s speech. He couldn’t exactly tell the guy that he found it inspirational – though he did – because that was just creepy. The actor was talking about giving himself up, and he was talking about it like it was an honor. He would get it if Castiel had been without vessel, but that wasn’t the case. Cas already had a vessel, and it wasn’t even yanking some other dude away from his life. Misha could have his life, and Castiel could have his own body, and everyone would be happy, right?

“Dean?” Misha had gotten up and was now leaning against the sofa. “I know it isn’t fair to ask this, but if you could do something, like give up your life, to make it possible for Sam to have that apple pie life he always wanted so much, would you do it?”

“Of course.”

Misha nodded sadly. “Castiel is like a brother to me. Why do you find it so hard to understand that I want to do this for him?”

“It’s not like you _have_ to!”

“I think you should maybe talk to Cas.”

“Wait!”

But it was too late. Misha had already stepped back, and there was Castiel, moving away from the sofa and standing upright. “Dean.”

“You’ve talked about this, haven’t you? You planned this.”

Castiel shook his head slightly. “There is a reason angels do not generally occupy empty vessels, Dean. I don’t know how Anna obtained her form after her human body was destroyed, but creating and maintaining such a vessel requires a lot of power. I don’t know why I was given mine, or how, but I had grown… attached to this form.” Cas looked down at himself, spreading his arms slightly to the side as if to indicate the body. “I had no wish to change it, also because it was familiar to you.”

“I kinda like it, too, Cas. Suits you,” Dean said, and that was probably the sappiest thing he’d uttered in his entire life.

Castiel had to good grace to continue as if it had never happened, even though his eyes had brightened in what constituted a small smile for the angel. “But it was draining my resources. I first realized how much after Purgatory. Before, I wasn’t… myself. And in Purgatory, things are, as you know, different. A true vessel and its angel are in a symbiotic relationship, Dean. They give each other strength. That is why Lucifer in his real vessel could have been unstoppable – as would have been Michael in his. Misha… We are both weakened at the moment, but it is far less strenuous.”

“So you are saying Misha’s your true vessel?” Dean would be damned if he wasn’t allowed to sound the slightest bit skeptical at that.

“Yes. As was Jimmy.”

“That’s… weird.” Dean had assumed that Jimmy had just been a random vessel Castiel had picked up in a rush. He had thought that a true vessel had to have at least something in common with the angel – like Sam and him, Lucifer and Michael, the older brother and the younger, tainted brother. Not that he was thinking of Sammy like that anymore. At any rate, he hadn’t been able to see any overlap between Jimmy Novak and Castiel, and he could see even less between Misha and Cas. Their personalities were so different. Cas, after everything that had happened to him, still was so otherworldly, so innocent when it came to human stuff, and Misha had left the impression on him that he was crazy enough to try out everything when he was well – and that he _had_ tried everything at least once.

“Jimmy was a devout man with a strong faith and even greater love for his family,” Castiel said, his voice a low rumble. “Misha has endured much, but still sees kindness in strangers. He is a true and unshakably loyal friend.”

Dean should maybe be pissed that Castiel seemed to read his mind, but he hadn’t exactly made an effort to control his expression – and besides, Cas was making a valid point. “Okay. I guess I can see it.”

Cas nodded as if it was somehow important to him that Dean approved of his choice of vessel. Maybe it was. Hell if Dean knew. “I’m glad.”

“So this is a done thing, yeah?”

Cas titled his head quizzically.

“I mean, you’ve already decided to keep using Misha as vessel.”

“I was aware of his wish to remain so since I returned to his body after our separation, yes.”

“And you like him.”

“I am fond of him. He is a very considerate vessel.”

“You’re sure he knows what being a vessel means? It sounded like Jimmy didn’t really have the full picture when he said yes.”

“I am certain.” Castiel was smiling suddenly.

“What? What are you smiling at? I don’t have something on my head, do I?”

“No, Dean. I detect… acceptance.”

“Okay, it’s kinda freaky that you can feel that.”

Cas had the audacity to look slightly smug. “Well, clearly I haven’t been mistaken.”

“I mean, it doesn’t change much.”

“No.”

“You’re still you. And you still look the same. Kinda.”

“Yes. Misha is also not opposed to the coat.”

“Okay,” Dean said, dragging the ‘o’. This conversation was definitely one of the most screwed up he’d ever had – and that was saying something. “What the hell. Misha probably knows more about your life than anyone else, anyway.”

“That is a fair assumption, yes.”

“So, we wait until you’re both fully healed, and then everything’s back to normal?”

“So I would assume.”

“Yeah, great. Just – Cas? Let me know before you decide to switch vessels next time?”

“I would not choose a vessel that was unwelcome to you.”

“That’s… nice. I guess.” It was also one of the strangest things anyone had ever said to him.

“I have to go now, Dean,” Castiel said, and it sounded almost like he regretted it. “I am still not well.”

“That’s okay. I’ll watch out for Misha while you’re resting, yeah?”

Castiel shot him a last, fond glance, and then the angel was gone and Misha’s legs gave out. Dean caught him with a soft ‘umpf’ – the actor really was heavier than he looked.

“You okay?”

“Dizzy. Very tired. But, yeah.” Misha pulled himself up, his fist tangling in Dean’s shirt. “Um… sorry. I get a bit clingy.”

“Are you… high?”

Misha hummed, not even attempting to move out of Dean’s personal space. If anything, he took full advantage of Dean’s support, hanging on to him completely boneless. “Happy angel inside you. Makes you kinda euphoric, you know.”

Dean steered Misha towards the bedroom they’d set up for him and which he’d so far ignored in favor of the sofa. His entire stuff was there, not that it was much, but the sheets bore some horrendously cheesy pattern of abstract cowboy hats on beige. Dean really didn’t want to know where Garth had picked them up.

Misha didn’t protest to being settled down on the bed, not really, except for the tiny grumble when Dean untangled himself from the happy clingy high vessel. Misha nuzzled into the pillows, but when Dean turned to leave, he caught his wrist with surprising intensity.

“Keep him safe.” It was said in Castiel’s low rumble, but Dean couldn’t be certain whether it had been the angel or his actor-vessel. A minute later, Misha had settled down and was asleep.

 

That night, Misha first dreamt with Castiel. He’d dreamt _about_ Cas before, usually related to whatever they were currently shooting, but this was different. Not only was he on some level aware that this was a dream, he also felt detached from it – as if it wasn’t his own. He dreamt of a battle in the fires of Hell, of angels and demons locked in bloody, deadly combat. And he dreamt of a soul shining through the darkness, obscured by pain and fear and self-hatred, but still, despite all, untainted. And he lay his hand on it and raised it from perdition.

Misha understood, then, what it really meant to be the Righteous Man, but also what it meant to be Dean. Misha understood that Castiel knew him, maybe better than Dean knew himself. Certainly better than anyone else. He felt honored that Castiel had decided to share this with him, even if the decision had been made unconsciously. It was part of _Castiel_ , part of how the angel perceived the world and the humans around him, something that Misha, try as he might, couldn’t understand merely by acting.

Misha woke up in the middle of the night, no longer tired but restless. He’d probably slept more in the last couple of days than in the entire time since he’d ended up in this universe, but it had felt good. Castiel was a quiet presence at the back of his mind, a steady support quite literally keeping demons at bay.

Misha padded into the kitchen to get a glass of water, wishing there was stuff to make tea, but that wasn’t really an item on the Winchester shopping list. He leant back against the counter, breathing in the silence. There was a salt line on the windowsill, a Devil’s Trap above the door. Misha wondered whether he ought to be more freaked about that than he was. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to the crazy – he’d done plenty of insane stuff in his life. Especially after the latest tragedy he’d gone a bit off the reservations – not that anyone noticed. The fans probably found his unhinged tweets hilarious. Plus, that had been in the early days of the J2 drama, so no one on set actually cared about anything other than keeping up the front for the ratings. It still leaked that their two leads weren’t talking, and had become something of an open secret by the time Misha had last seen them. The convention panels were exhausting for all involved. Misha’d always hoped that someday the two would just kiss and make up, but it didn’t look like that was ever going to happen – not in his universe, anyway. Sam and Dean seemed to get along just fine at the moment, which was a welcome difference.

Of course Misha’s life wasn’t exactly at its best right now. He was lurking at the edge of a mental breakdown, but there was Castiel, who kept him together – probably with duct tape and spittle. His memory loss had probably been a fugue state, his mind running from the reality of his death and the traumatic abduction that had preceded it – and he really shouldn’t be able to think about it so calmly.

“Misha?” Dean had emerged from one of the bedrooms, but he was still in jeans. Perhaps this was just how he slept, but more likely he’d never been asleep.

“Hi.” Misha lifted his glass in the hunter’s direction. “Join me?”

Dean came over to the fridge and pulled out a beer, popping it open with his ring. “Coming down from your high?”

“It was just endorphins. But, um… somewhat, maybe. Cas is… content.”

“Dude, you’re crying.”

“I am?” Misha reached up, and found his cheeks wet. He hadn’t even noticed. He turned away, trying to pull himself back together. “Sorry. No idea what’s wrong with me. I’d better... um… go to bed, I guess. See you in the morning.” Misha put the glass down on the counter and returned to his room without glancing back at Dean. He could feel the hunter’s eyes on his back even after he’d closed the door behind himself.

He dreamt again – only this time, they were his own dreams. J2 were there – or rather, they weren’t there. The set was too still, too empty. Deserted and deadly quiet. Silence hung over everything like a heavy gloom, and Misha felt terrified. Someone was watching him. The parking lot was too wide, too dark, too empty. Misha weaved his way along the side of the buildings towards the trailers – only to find that his own was gone, and Jensen’s was in its place as if Misha’s had never been there. It still felt safer than the open space – until he heard the shot. He burst in on Virgil holding Jensen at gunpoint, with Jared sliding down the wall behind him. Misha didn’t think twice, and then there was pain in his throat and blackness, impenetrable. Suffocating –

“Curious.”

Misha started awake, and fell backwards out of the bed. It might not have looked particularly elegant, but it had the distinct advantage of putting the bed in between him and the man standing inside his room – not man. Demon.

“You’re not Castiel. You’re not even from this universe. That is really very interesting.”

The King of Hell was standing inside his bedroom.

“You know, you really should have double checked that warding.” Crowley took a step forward –

– and Misha did the only sensible thing. He screamed.

It might have come out as Dean’s name, it might have been nothing more than an unarticulated high screech, but it brought the hunter running in no time at all, gun drawn. He skidded to a halt just inside the doorframe.

“Crowley.”

“Hello, Squirrel. How nice to see you, too.”

“What do you want? How did you find us?”    

“Well, your Castiel-look-alike there left behind a somewhat obvious trace. But I’m sure you knew that already.”

Dean shifted his stance, tightening the grip on his gun. He didn’t spare one glance at Misha, who was still sitting on the floor. Moving was beyond him. And Castiel had buried himself so deeply, hidden so well, that he wasn’t keeping the panic at bay. At all.

Crowley was staring at him. “Pathetic.”

“What do you want?”

Crowley gazed back to Dean and lifted his hands in a sarcastic, but placating gesture. “What you do with your buddies from different realities in your bedrooms at night is none of my business. I came to investigate the truly unfortunate demise of two renegade demons. I would have so enjoyed taking them apart, but _someone_ gave them a quick death. I’m assuming that was you lot. And just so you know, you should get rid of _him_.” Crowley jerked his head towards Misha, who couldn’t help flinching away. “I don’t even need to put a tail on you while he’s around. The ripple effect in reality between him and that tear our dear Moose is currently investigating is like a trail of very big breadcrumbs. I couldn’t care less, but I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who’ll notice, don’t you think?” With that, Crowley was gone just as quickly as he had appeared.

Dean immediately pocketed the gun and dropped to his haunches beside Misha. “Are you all right?”

Misha wasn’t given time to answer before Castiel took over.

 

Dean could see the horror, the fear, the frigging tears on Misha’s face as he knelt down beside the actor. He could _feel_ the tremors running through the smaller man – and then it all stopped. He grew still, his face smoothed over, and his pushed himself to his feet. The tears remained, but that was only because Castiel did not think to wipe them away. “I owe you an apology, Dean. I didn’t think it wise to make Crowley aware of the fact that I was here, and in hiding neglected to protect my vessel from the trauma he has suffered.”

“Buddy, you should be apologizing to Misha! He’s been falling apart.”

Castiel looked away, concern reflected in his eyes. “I am aware. Still, Crowley’s words are unsettling. If Misha is indeed connected to the rift, we have less time than I thought.”

“Sam’s due to call in the morning.”

“I have never heard of any dimensional rift that has remained open for such an extended period of time. When Balthazar originally sent you there, the rift closed immediately behind you.”

“But there was still some sort of connection – at the time and place of the crossing, wasn’t it?”

Cas inclined his head slightly. “Yes, it is worth investigating further. I should leave. If this vessel is as easily traceable as Crowley claims, my presence here is a danger to you.”

“Whoa, hang on! We’ll figure this out together, Cas. Either we’ll return Misha to his dimension after all, or we close the rift and the connection snaps, right?”

“So I would assume.”

“Great. So we get at it in the morning. No flying off!”

Castiel nodded in silent acquiescence and then he’d retreated once more inside his vessel. Misha fell down heavily onto the bed and gripped the sheets, his eyes blown wide with panic that wasn’t allowed to blossom. “Oh god, oh god.”

“Pretty sure He had nothing to do with it,” Dean commented dryly. He’d thought the damage Cas was trying to fix for Misha had been only physical, but quite clearly he’d been wrong. This felt like Sam’s wall all over again, only Cas was now sane and it was his vessel that was falling apart.

Misha laughed. It was a harsh and bitter sound that reminded Dean uncomfortably of future-Cas-who-never-happened, and maybe that wasn’t so far off the mark. Maybe that Cas had just laughed and laughed to stop himself from crying. Misha wasn’t very successful when it came to that. He was crying openly, and it looked nothing like Castiel. Castiel probably would have allowed the tears to flow freely, calmly, not knowing or caring about the strange wetness springing from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. Misha, however, was downright sobbing, as messy and as ugly as it could get. The actor folded himself up on the bed, almost crawling into the headboard, and buried his face in a pillow and his own folded arms. He was only wearing an oversized t-shirt and shorts to sleep, and they dwarfed him, despite his usually quite impressive stature. But then Castiel had always seemed larger than life, and Misha was just… human. Fragile.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, fiddling with his gun helplessly. “Jeez, man.” He half expected Misha to tell him to get the hell out of the room.

Misha didn’t. “Well, excuse me! You didn’t just get woken up from a fucking nightmare by the _King of Hell_ standing by your bedside!”

Dean scowled. “I’ll double-check the warding and reline the windows.”

“You said it was safe!”

“It should have been! I have no frigging clue how Crowley got inside, okay!”

Misha led out another sob, his breath hitching.

“I’ll go get the salt.”

Misha actually flinched, and Dean turned back in the doorframe. “No! Jen- Dean, I need…” He glanced up for a second, blue eyes watery and red-rimmed, agonized. “Oh God. Cas, _help me_. _Please_.”

A moment passed, then two, in which Misha shuddered under the onslaught of panic or whatever it was – and then he grew still, righting himself and setting his feet down exactly parallel by the bed, the pillow discarded.

“Cas?”

Castiel looked up at him, a slight frown creasing his forehead, but otherwise calm. It was completely at odds with the reddening of his eyes and his tear-stained cheeks, but his expression still spoke volumes of worry and concern. “This is deeply troubling.”

“You sure it’s a good idea to take over? Misha needs to sort this out eventually, he can’t just keep running.”

“Dean, I couldn’t ignore his prayer.”

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean–”

“I realize that my help might not be adequate in this case, seeing as I am responsible, however indirectly, for much which troubles Misha.” Castiel rose to his feet. “I will assist you in examining the warding.”

They worked in silence. Dean lined every opening with salt, while Castiel directed his entire attention towards the sigils and Devil’s Traps. It didn’t take them long to find Crowley’s loophole: A rotting floorboard in the small attic storage had disrupted a salt line and torn a hairline crack into the Devil’s Trap on the access hatch. They still double-checked everything else.

By the time they were done and met back in the living room, the dawn was stretching its wings, the morning sun disturbing flakes of dust with its brilliance. Castiel no longer looked like he had suffered a mental breakdown not so long ago. He looked tired and there was blood on his hand from the minute but intricate sigils he had added to their front door, but it disappeared as Dean watched. Cas probably hadn’t even noticed any discomfort.

It was odd to see the angel like that. He usually wore so many layers regardless of weather, but now he was just in Misha’s t-shirt and boxers. His body – his vessel – too was different. Misha was leaner than Jimmy, slightly better toned, owing to a more active lifestyle than that of an ad-time salesman. His shirt had hiked up when Cas had stretched to paint the sigils and was now bunched up awkwardly in the dip of his lower back.

“Dean?”

Dean shook himself out of his reverie. “All done?”

Castiel brushed his hands as if to get rid of any residual dirt – not that there was any. “Yes. This house should now be hidden from demons and angels alike. As long as we remain inside, nothing will detect us even if they pass close-by.”

“What of the trace Crowley was going on about?”

Cas shook his head. “I believe it might lead demons into the vicinity, but they still shouldn’t be able to pinpoint the location.”

“Okay, that’s good. Worse case, we have a siege on our hands, but as long as you are all angeled up we should be able to handle it.”

A small smile tugged at Castiel’s mouth.

“You okay, though? You don’t need rest?”

Dean flopped down on the sofa, and Cas followed him to settle on an armchair, perching on the very edge. “I have created a dreamscape for Misha.”

“I thought he didn’t want you to do that?”

Cas looked almost affronted. “I didn’t act against his will. It was the only way to calm him. He is aware it is a dream, but he is content for now.”

Dean absently plucked on a loose thread. “I don’t know, man. It doesn’t sound healthy.”

“Do you believe you would be capable of assisting?”

“No, I guess not. Talking about feelings is more Sammy’s kind of thing.”

Cas exhaled – or maybe it was a sigh. “I understand you concern, Dean, but I believe Misha will be able to overcome this.”

 

 

 


	9. Heaven's Angels

## ~ Heaven’s Angels ~

Misha was dreaming. He knew, because he’d asked Cas to do it, and because things were behaving oddly in this dreamscape. Objects disappeared when he wasn’t looking, or appeared when he needed them, and the sign on the door of his trailer which should have read ‘Misha Collins’ had his birth name instead.

It was a wonderful day. The air smelled of summer and warmth. There was an inflatable wading pool on the grounds between Jensen’s trailer and his, with a few rubber ducks bobbing about in the clear water. There were birds singing overhead, and the bustle of voices all around, and everything was fine. It made Misha’s heart ache, but at least he felt safe. Nothing bad could happen to him here. This was his dream, and he could damn well do as he pleased.

He’d thought about flying because in his dream he could do anything, but in the end, he’d decided to stay and sought out the area where an outdoor shoot was in progress and watched the filming. They were shooting something in season four – before J2's big hissy fit. They were messing with one another, laughing, and Misha basked in the camaraderie and the joyful atmosphere.

“Misha?”

He turned to find Castiel standing there. It was strange, seeing someone who was essentially himself with an actual angelic aura, radiating _age_ and _power_ , all dressed up in Cas’ customary clothes – Jimmy’s, as they were – but Misha couldn’t stop smiling. “Hey, Cas.”

“You are better.”

“Yeah. Yes, I guess. Sorry I freaked out. It was just a bit too much on top of that nightmare. You know, Mark is actually a nice guy – but Crowley…”

“I understand.”

Misha knew Cas too well not to realize that that statement actually meant that no, he didn’t, not really, anyway. “Guess you’re used to Crowley. Hey, can we go prank J2?”

“They aren’t real.”

“Does it matter?”

Cas didn’t acknowledge the subject with any more than a perplexed stare. “I could return you to your universe.”

“I know, Castiel.” Misha’d thought about it, too, and at length, but…

“Dean says you should not be making decisions you cannot take back in an emotionally fragile state.”

“If I die here – what will happen?”

“A reaper will escort your soul to Heaven.”

“Even though I’m… not from around here?”

“Yes, your soul is now not fundamentally different from any other human soul I have encountered. However, you will not die, or age, as long as you are my vessel.”

“Unless something happens to you. Like the Purgatory souls – that’s what got to Jimmy, isn’t it?”

Cas inclined his head, shame and regret warring for dominance in his features. “I released Jimmy when I found that the vessel was corroding while I was… bad.”

Misha nodded, biting his bottom lip and turned back to watch his colleagues ruining another take with their antics. “Will there be anyone I know?”

“Not their actual souls, I am afraid. But your Heaven will be what you most desire.”

“You are lucky to have the Winchesters.”

“I know.” Castiel glowed with something like astonishment – and pride – not for his own achievements but for the brothers’.

“Are you here to ask me to wake up?”

“It is your choice, Misha. Dean will rest for a little while yet before we depart to join Sam.”

Misha was not entirely at ease here – it felt like he was running away, and maybe he was, but then he’d been doing that for his whole life, even when it was just trying to find an outlet for his overactive mind. “Okay, you know what? Why don’t you get me when it’s actually time? I’m not hiding, I promise. I just need a little more time.”

Cas nodded his silent acquiescence and was gone.

“Misha! Hey, we’re missing our angel!”

Misha turned to face Jensen, all in Dean’s get-up – and had to walk away. He wasn’t ready to face any interaction just now. He wished there was a way he could check up on the state of his universe without committing himself, but he couldn’t ask that of Castiel – the angel had risked becoming marooned there once on his behalf already. He couldn’t ask him to do it again.

“Mr Collins, are you okay?”

Misha glanced at the PA, about to dismiss him with a wave of his hand – then thought better of it. “Um, yes, Dave. Thank you.”

Dave visibly warmed under Misha’s smile, and that slammed a bunch of regrets home.

“I’ll just-“ Misha indicated his trailer, and fled up the steps.

The door was unlocked by the time Misha had found his keys, but that wasn’t much of a surprise in this dreamscape. He walked in, dropping his keys on the table like he always did and turned towards the fridge. It was then that he saw the blood.

A trail of deep red splatters was leading into the bedroom. Misha wanted to walk away. Turn and walk away, leave, pretend it had never happened, because this was how nightmares started. He needed to find the company he’d so unwisely shunned, but morbid curiosity drove him on.

Virgil was dead. He lay crumbled against the wall, shot in the head. Apparently, this wasn’t something a weakened angel could fix. There were black smudges on either side of him – a pale echo of scorched wing marks.

The blood wasn’t his, even though there were enough bodily fluids there, too. It was Jensen’s. Jensen, who’d bled out on Misha’s bed, his hand still clutching his cell phone. Jensen, whom Misha could hear laughing outside.

“Cas! Castiel!”

Misha backed away, barely aware that it was him screaming. He couldn’t avert his gaze. His mind was fucking with him. No way was this his dream. He didn’t dream shit like that.

“CAS!”

And just like that, he was awake.

Misha was sitting in an armchair in the living room, in the morning sun, and Dean was snoring on the sofa. “Cas, did you see?”

Castiel send a wave of tenderness and compassion. _Yes._

It was weird talking to the angel while he was in charge of the body, but that was the least of Misha’s concerns right now. He sank back into the armchair, melting into the upholstery. His eyes felt moist. “Why do I keep seeing such things?”

_There might be a stronger connection between you and your universe than I assumed._

“So it happened? Virgil, he killed J2? After Dean and Sam got back?”

_So it would seem. I am very sorry._

“Not your fault.”

Castiel seemed to disagree, but he didn’t voice it. _Nonetheless. Condolences._

“Thanks…” Misha looked at Dean. “Um, you were just watching him, weren’t you.” It wasn’t a question, not really. Misha _knew_ how Cas worked.

 _Another hour_ , came the not-quite-answer from the angel. It wasn’t a thought, nor was it communication in the normal sense. It was more of a sensation, a knowledge that wasn’t his own appearing in his mind. Misha wondered for a second if that was how it felt for Cas when he communicated with him.

“One hour. Okay. I’ll… go back to sleep, I think. It can’t get worse.”

It didn’t, but at one point, Misha saw Sam standing on set, on the phone. It would have been normal – if there hadn’t been Jared who was behind the camera, pulling faces to make Misha laugh. He never did, but it threw him so much that he ruined the take, anyway. Not that it mattered. Sam had looked worried, though.

Misha woke up to the sound of a phone ringing.

“Sammy? Yeah, we’re heading out now. Yeah. See you in a bit.” Dean hung up, turning to Misha. “Cas, you ready to leave?”

Misha ran a hand over the nape of his neck. “Um, it’s Misha now, actually. Sorry.”

Dean blinked, then shrugged. “No, it’s fine. How are you, dude? You scared the crap out of Cas.”

Misha managed an honest smile. He felt rested, despite the disturbing dreams which even now refused to fade in clarity. “Crowley scared the crap out of _me_.”

Dean zipped a duffel bag closed. “Well, he’s clearly not interested in you. He just checked up on those demons who napped Cas. Sam says Pontiac’s infested with all kinds of supernatural shit, so just disappear if you can’t handle it, okay?”

“I’m _fine_ , Dean.” Misha pushed himself to his feet. “It was just a panic attack. I was startled, and Cas wasn’t helping.”

Dean just nodded, obviously not convinced, and they headed out to the Impala. At some point, Misha had gotten dressed – he couldn’t remember if the clothes had been there already when he’d last spoken to Castiel, but it had presumably been the angel who had taken care of that. Mercifully, they were his own clothes, a faded greyish jeans with a tear in the back pocket and a navy blue hoodie with a pattern of clouds and stars down the left side. It had been cheap and was a bit chilly in the morning air, but Misha still kind of liked it.

 

“So, does Sam have any idea how to close this tear?”

“We didn’t talk over the phone,” Dean replied, looking perfectly at ease with his hands back on the wheel of his beloved car. He was going a bit fast, but Misha swallowed down the comment sitting on his tongue. It wasn’t like a car crash would kill him while Cas was there, and the angel wouldn’t let it kill Dean, either.

“I think your counterpart… fake-you, whatever. I think he’s dead.” Misha didn’t know what made him say it, but now it was too late to take it back.

Dean’s shoulders had tensed. “How would you know?”

“Virgil got to him before Jensen shot him in the head. Virgil got to Jared, too – no idea if he survived.”

Dean was starting to look a lot less comfortable. “And you know that how?”

“It was in my dreams.”

“Man, those are just dreams. Nightmares. You’re not psychic, or anything.”

“I might be,” Misha shot back in all seriousness.

“Trust me, you’d know.”

“How would I? Up until a month ago, I have been living in another universe. Maybe it’s the tear. Or maybe I’m only just discovering it.”

“Dude-“

“There’s no magic in my universe, apparently, so who knows, right? I mean, I knew it was Sam calling while the phone was still ringing.”

“Misha, you don’t want that kind of ability, okay?!” Dean gripped the wheel with unnecessary force. “They are painful and disturbing and not a good sign.”

“I forgot about Sam and Azazel.” Misha wasn’t going to apologize. One, he’d just been rambling, and two, he’d been doing that far too much of late, apologizing, and it was doing nothing for his self-esteem. He’d been hovering on the edge of an existential crisis even before he’d died, shoving it all down under superficial insanity and randomness. He wasn’t sure if he hadn’t fallen over the edge long ago and hadn’t even noticed with his Twitter following keeping him afloat. It certainly hadn’t been the cast and crew, with their fixation on ratings and J2’s pissing contest. “I miss Twitter.”

“What? What the hell’s a tweeter?”

It wasn’t the subtlest change of topic, but Misha was grateful. He rolled his eyes at Dean. “Twitter. It’s this online platform for sharing messages. I had quite the following, but obviously not in this universe. I don’t seem to exist here, which is a bit of a relief, to be honest. Wouldn’t want to bump into myself – though it’s all based on that one websearch I did, and I’m not so sure about that search engine of yours. ‘Search the Web’? Really?”

“What do you want? It does the job.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Anyway, randomness. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Dean cleared his throat, his eyes clued to the road. “So, the other me. What was he like?”

“Jensen?”

Dean shook his head at the name.

“He was okay. We usually ran lines together, you know, with Cas and Dean always… um. Well, you know how J2 stopped talking to each other, and I was sort of stuck between chairs. I tried to stay out of it, but you can’t really when you’re working with the guys for three quarters of the year.”

“He had a fish tank and a helicopter. And fake-Sam had a llama in his backyard.”

“And you’ve been to Heaven and Hell and back and Sam got hooked on demon blood and lost his soul and you’re friends with an angel. Don’t tell me my life’s the weird one. Also, I’m pretty sure it was an alpaca.”

Dean shot him a quick glance. “Fair enough. So, you’ve decided to stick with us?”

“Looks like there’s nothing left for me where I’m from.”

Misha felt an apology bubble up from somewhere inside him, right where Castiel was tucked away.

“It’s not your fault.”

Dean looked confused.

“Talking to Cas.”

“Okay. This is weird.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that before.”

“What’s Cas doing in there, anyway?”

“Besides fighting my PTSD, you mean? I don’t know. Checking out my memories of porn, probably.”

“Dude!” Dean exclaimed just as Castiel, quite forcefully and indignantly stated: “I do not.”

Misha made it quite clear internally that he was joking; externally, he winked at Dean suggestively, letting his tongue dart out even though his lips didn’t feel dry at all.

Dean swerved on the lane. “Damn–! Stop that!”

Misha laughed – and it felt good and genuine and happy and he was _so_ grateful for that.

To his delight, Dean even joined in. His laugh was nothing like that of his alternate self; it was as though the child he’d never been able to be came rising to the surface: cheeky, mischievous, liberating.

And wouldn’t that have made a fabulous tweet. _Mishamigos! Made Dean laugh with sexual innuendo. It’s been a good day._

“That’s my phone,” Dean said suddenly, blindly groping about in the glove box. “Do you mind?”

Misha reached into the compartment and pulled out the vibrating phone. “It’s Sam.” He took the call. “Sam.”

“Cas? Where’s Dean?”

Misha decided it wasn’t worth spending time clearing up the mistake. He could channel the angel easily enough with Castiel so close to the surface, anyway. He dropped his voice in register. “Dean is driving.”

 _Dean_ was shooting him curious glances, but he obviously wasn’t fooled.

“You’re on the way? Jeez…” Sam sounded flustered even through the crackling connection.

“Is something the matter?”

“I need you to meet me on the field where you got back into Misha. Don’t come driving into town. Can you tell Dean that?”

“Of course. Is there a particular reason-”

“Can’t talk right now. See you there.” Sam hung up.

Misha lowered the phone with a small frown. “Sam wants us to meet him on the field where I was reunited with my vessel. He warns us not to drive into Pontiac.”

It took a moment of silence and Dean’s piercing gaze before Misha realized that he hadn’t snapped out of character. It had felt natural, familiar, but now he dropped the act in a heartbeat. “Um, sorry. I get character bleed sometimes.”

Dean deliberately shrugged it off. “Sammy say why?”

“No. Uh, Cas thinks it’s about the link Crowley mentioned.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, of course. He’s talking to me now. You know, I get why Jimmy said it was like being chained to a comet.”

“Misha, nobody’s forcing you-”

“No, that’s not how I meant it. It’s not like that, it’s not painful. It’s comfort, warmth, even – but not fiery warmth. It feels like – Cas’s essence, his grace, or whatever, burns bright and cold like dry ice. Like a comet. It’s raw power.”

“You’re only saying this _after_ I agreed to you staying a vessel on purpose.”

“Dean.” Misha shook his head. “It’s not like that, really. It doesn’t hurt. Cas would never hurt me on purpose, you have to know that! It’s just this presence, like I have a lot of energy just under my skin – when we were separated, I actually missed it. I missed it with every fiber of my being.”

“Whatever you say.”

 

Naturally, they arrived on the field some time before Sam. Dean tried not to fidget. It wasn’t like Sam to leave things unexplained, but Dean knew how difficult it could be to discuss such things over an open phone line. Besides, Sam had been in a demon-infested city, so his silence had probably been a reasonable move – at least, that was the way Cas saw it.

Dean was sitting on the Impala’s hood, twirling his phone between his index finger and thumb, while Cas stood nearby, not even leaning, and surveyed the field.

“It looks very different in daylight.”

“Things usually do, Cas.” Dean had the suspicion that Castiel hadn’t meant it quite so literally, but he wasn’t in the mood for philosophical discussions about how the angel’s perception was different when he was bound to a vessel as opposed to just bound.

At any rate, Misha had retreated when Castiel, quite sensibly, had pointed out that they were no longer protected by sigils and therefore clearly traceable to anyone with the necessary means. That was also why there was a shotgun by Dean’s side. Cas probably had his angel blade, though he looked a fair touch less angelic in Misha’s shrill hoodie – and who knew where he’d stashed his weapon without Jimmy’s large sleeves. At least, the hoodie brought out Cas’s – or rather, Misha’s – eyes, but it didn’t have quite the aplomb of the billowing trenchcoat. Not that Castiel seemed to care either way.

When Sammy’s newly stolen car rolled around, Dean slid off the hood. Sam climbed out of the car, his eyes clued to the EMF detector cradled in his palm. He held it up higher, and zeroed in on Cas. “Whoa!”

“Hello to you, too, Sammy!”

Sam stepped out of Castiel’s space as if he’d only now realized that he was invading it, shooting the angel an apologetic look – Cas, of course, merely regarded him with a curiously tilted head. Sam cleared his throat. “No, look at this!” He thrust the device into Dean’s hands.

The EMF detector wasn’t just responding, it was off the scale – really off the scale. Dean moved it just a little closer to Cas, and the thing grew hot and started shooting sparks. Dean had just enough presence of mind to chug it away instead of just dropping it to the ground between them. It came to lie upside down further in the field, fizzling and smoking.

“Damn!”

“All of Pontiac is buzzing with EMF,” Sam said. “I swear I checked when we first got there – it seems to have gotten worse, a lot worse, and it spiked around the time you set out. I figured it had to do with Cas, or Misha, at least, and it turns out I was right. It’s like one of those knots in the Earth’s energy grid, you know, ley lines.”

Castiel looked quizzical for a second, then his expression cleared. “I understand now. Ley lines, as you call them, are stationary. It is not possible for them to center on a moveable object or person, nor is it possible for new… lines to form. This link between the rift and my vessel cannot be related.”

“How do you know about ley lines?” It was a legitimate question where Dean was standing. After all, there might be all sorts of mysticism associated with ley lines, but it wasn’t exactly bible school material – more pagan gods sort of business.

Castiel, however, shot him a glance as though he had just asked a very stupid question. “They are very old, Dean, and very well known in Heaven. I was merely unaware of the term, but Misha has explained.”

Dean really didn’t want to ask how an actor knew that stuff. “So, EMF. That’s damn easy to trace if you’re looking.”

Sam nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. If the levels are rising… That’s also why I couldn’t let you drive into Pontiac. You saw what happened to the detector, if we get Cas close to the rift, we might blow out the energy grid of the entire town. And it’s been building for what, a month? By now there’s demons snooping around everywhere. I barely got around without drawing attention.”

“Probably Crowley’s,” Castiel volunteered. “If he told the truth about the rogue demons, he would send his followers to investigate. We must close the rift.”

“It’s getting noticed. Any hunters?”

Sam shook his head. “None yet.”

“That’s good.”

“I need to confer with Dean,” Cas announced suddenly, and had placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder before it even occurred to the hunter to protest.

They didn’t move, but everything else just stopped: The grass stopped swaying in the light breeze and Sam froze mid-start.

“What the hell, Cas?”

Castiel look about them, utterly calm. “I have displaced us into a pocket universe. We cannot be overheard here. Dean – EMF on this scale will have been detected in Heaven. It is very easy for angels to monitor waves. We need to close the rift before a party is sent to investigate. My brothers and sisters, they… Opening a rift between realities is frowned upon.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s a question of theology,” Cas said.

“I get why it wasn’t the right thing to do last time, but this time you saved an innocent life, Cas! How can that be contrary to the rules of your angel buddies?!”

Castiel looked vaguely uneasy. “There is some debate as to whether alternate universes are my father’s creations. Few have doubts about those that merely represent a different decision playing out, such as the potential future you witness yourself, but those realities without the supernatural… I have to confess even I originally had doubts when I learned that such a thing existed. Now that I have had contact with Misha’s soul I no longer consider his reality any less than this one, but not many will be willing to reconsider.”

“So what? It’s not like it would be the first time we don’t agree with those winged jerkasses.”

“It is not as simple as that, Dean! These universes, and their inhabitants, have been called abominations. The damage I caused when I first instructed Balthazar to send you there will be insignificant compared to the destruction should Heavenly Wrath descent on them. Thousands will die, and in their universe… I don’t know what would happen to their souls.”

“Okay… So everything those dicks don’t get is the epitome of evil, that it?”

Castiel frowned at the insult. “Not all of my brothers and sisters are as narrow-minded as you consider them, Dean, and no, not evil – their extinction would be considered an act of pity. They live in a godless universe.”

“Well, news flash, Cas! God hasn’t been around much here, either!” They hadn’t really talked about that since… well, since the Apocalypse, really. There hadn’t been much time to discuss stuff after Cas’s stint as replacement god, and it was still a sore subject with both of them. Dean had never been much of a believer in religious terms, but to learn that God just didn’t give a damn… And then, of course, something kept bringing Cas back, and God was his Father…

Predictably, Castiel’s eyes flashed with righteous anger for a second, but it disappeared so quickly that Dean’s heart ached. “No, of course you are correct. I’m not sure of the state Heaven is in at this point, but I will not risk further destruction. The rift must be closed.”

“Yeah, I get it. Saving the world is what we do, right?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Castiel reached out towards Dean again.

Dean shifted out of the way. “Hang on. Uh. Can I talk to you alone?”

 

 


	10. The Vessel

## ~ The Vessel ~

Misha resurfaced to a sense of vertigo and disorientation. His body felt foreign to him, as if it weren’t quite his own, every muscle tense and sore like they sometimes were after a long run. This time, though, he hadn’t been running. Castiel sat as a bright and burning presence at the back of his mind, harsh and inaccessible like the angel had never been before.

“What… what happened?”

Fortunately, the Winchesters were around to hear him. Dean stepped in, taking him by the arm. “Misha?”

“Yeah. What happened? Why was I… Oh!” Misha wrenched his arm free, the memory flooding back. “Why did you do that!?”

Sam stepped away from the Impala, where the two brothers had been conversing. “What happened?”

“I just needed to talk to Cas. Alone,” Dean said, and had the audacity to look not even remotely apologetic.

“And of course you didn’t think what that would mean for me. Why would you? You never spared a thought on Jimmy while he was Cas’s vessel. I’m sorry to tell you, Dean, but you wouldn’t even be able to talk to Castiel if it weren’t for us!”

“I had to ask whether this time-share thing could work out for Cas without you butting in!”

“I very much hope you didn’t just fucking ask Cas to smother me for a quick snog!”

“I had no idea it would be so bad, okay? Cas didn’t say.”

“Because he would do anything for you, Dean, and you still haven’t noticed! If he could, Castiel would make the Earth turn the other way for you, and not protest even if it burned out his grace!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s an angel.”

“He’s a blind fool when it comes to you! That entire purgatory mess – Castiel would never have done that if Raphael hadn’t threatened to start the apocalypse again, hadn’t threatened you! He’s no more thinking clearly when it comes to you than you are with Sam. It’s really not my place to tell you what to make of that, but I am not going to watch this any longer.” Misha turned his back on the hunters, not even thinking or caring that they carried more weapons than he had handled in his life, and walked towards the stolen car.

Sam had left the car ticking over, and no one was stopping him from sliding into the driver’s seat, but once there, Castiel’s presence cut sharp and wordlessly into his mind, making his eyes water to the point it was blinding. Misha still started the engine. He was fighting down his own emotions, anyway (the last time he’d been driving a car he’d died), Castiel was just another thing to ignore.

And yes, he was angry at the angel, too. Misha knew that Dean was Castiel’s blind spot, but he felt… betrayed. He had trusted Castiel to never do that to him, never put him to sleep against his will, but the angel had forced him under without a second thought the instant Dean had asked. If this was going to work, they needed to sort that out.

Misha put the car in reverse and let it roll off the field and onto the road. He could see the brothers in the rearview mirror, but they had made no move to follow him, both still standing by the Impala.

_Misha, you will reverse this car immediately._

“I won’t. We need to sort this out, and we need to sort it now, and without Dean, or so help me, I am going to throw you out.”

_That would be unwise. You are still not well._

“I’ll deal. I’ve dealt with a lot.” Misha drummed his finger against the steering wheel. “Cas… I’m not blaming you, not really. I know what it’s like to want to do everything for a person; I just don’t want to get caught in between.”

_Are you revoking your consent to remain my vessel?_

Damn, Castiel almost sounded like he was sorry about that – as if a shitty actor from another universe could actually mean something to an angel. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Misha ended up driving the car into a side street concealed by a bunch of trees and stopped it at the curb. In the silence that followed after he killed the engine, he checked the backseat, shivering with indeterminable fear even though he knew there was nobody there. Eventually, he moved to the backseat, just to avoid having a free space behind him, and wondered if someone told his twitter crowd. Maybe the account would forever remain a chilling horror story, ending with the breathtaking line of “Ever get the feeling there’s someone on the backseat of the car?” He could accept that legacy; it had a bit of a dramatic flourish, really. Still, if the homicidal angel who’d killed him had decimated the entire film crew, his fate had probably been drowned out by the tabloids ripping apart the show, as they’d always done.

 _Misha_.

“You know impatience is not a virtue, right?” Misha pushed a hand through his hair, chuckling nervously. “This is incredibly weird.”

_Any instance the rift between realities remains open increases the danger. There is no time for this._

“Well, you’ve got to make the time. I’m not an idiot, Castiel. But if you close the rift before we’ve sorted this out, you’re taking the decision away from me. I would have nowhere to go.”

_There seems to be little you expect to remain for you in your universe._

“Perhaps there isn’t. Still, Free Will, right?”

_Of course. I will await your decision._

“No! Cas, it doesn’t work like that! Look, I’m not asking you to put me before Dean. I can’t ask you to put me before Dean. I just… You promised. You promised me you wouldn’t do stuff like that without my permission.”

_I apologize._

“This is Dean’s fault as much as yours, you know. He might say he’s accepting me as vessel and everything, but like I said, he never really thought about Jimmy, and now that he’s met me, talked to me, even hunted with me, he can’t really ignore this vessel thing any longer. This is not about me looking slightly differently, or dressing differently. This is about there being a third person in the relationship he has with you – about there always having been a third person, only that I’m not going to sit quietly in the backseat.” Except he was sitting in the backseat. Talking to himself, for all accounts and purposes.

_Things will be different once you are well. There will be little need for you to maintain control, or to sleep. I will require free use of the vessel._

“I know that! Cas, I know all that. Hell, the stuff you do – I don’t even want to get involved in half of it. I don’t expect to have a life of my own, and I would never come between you and the Winchesters, certainly not between you and Dean. But I’m not going to be treated like an inconvenient third wheel. I need you to talk to me, I need you to let me have control once in a while, I need you to trust me – and most of all, I need you to trust me enough that you can convince Dean to stop being an idiot.”

 

“I screwed up, Sammy,” Dean said into the silence that had settled over the field after the stolen car with Misha and Castiel had rumbled away into the distance. He’d felt Sam twitch beside him, trying to go after them, but Dean hadn’t moved. He couldn’t have, even if he wanted to – there was just too much stuff in his head, it was just… too much.

“What happened?” Sam asked quietly.

“I asked to talk to Cas alone. He put Misha under without asking – he didn’t even say anything about it to me! I just needed to talk to Cas alone.”

“We’ve always known vessels were strange. It’s all pretty straightforward with demons, but we know next to nothing about angel-vessel relations. From what I’ve seen, they are far more complex.”

“It’s not that, Sam. Damn, the stuff I talked to Cas about. Like, I don’t want anyone to hear that. I don’t want to think about there being someone else there.”

Sam shrugged. “Then don’t. The time share thing is working, right? And besides, Jimmy said he only remembered bits and pieces. Maybe it’ll be the same for Misha.”

“I don’t think so. He’s been paying damn good attention to everything.”

Sam pulled open the door to the Impala. “A couple of years ago, we would have been much better off if Jimmy had remembered what Cas was going to tell you before he got dragged back to Heaven.”  

“I can’t have a proper conversation with the guy knowing that there’s someone else constantly listening in!” Dean finally forced himself to move, and went around to the driver’s side. “It’s like constant surveillance. It’s just creepy.”

“I don’t understand why this is suddenly a problem for you, Dean. I mean, you knew about Jimmy, and you never wondered how much he heard. You didn’t even know he was gone until a week ago.”

“It’s different.”

“How? Seriously, Dean, how is it different? Just because Misha’s someone you’ve been getting to know and like?”

“No. Yes. No! This has nothing to do with Misha!” Dean slammed the car into gear. “I just want Cas to get back into his empty vessel. Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t think it’s creepy.”

Sam nodded. “Of course it’s creepy. But if Cas says he’ll be better off in an occupied vessel, and as long as Misha gives full consent… I mean, he knows what we do, right? And besides, Cas has been looking rather tired since you got back from Purgatory. Maybe this is it.”

“Cas always looks a little tired. Besides, dude’s been trying too hard.”

“Have you thought about how Misha might actually be able to help?”

“Of course I have. That’s why I agreed he could stay around as vessel in the first place. It’s just awkward!”

“We’ll have to find them again before we can do anything about that, so let’s get moving. I really don’t want to know what happens if Misha decides to head into Pontiac.”

 

“So, how do we close this rift?”

_It should be possible to reverse the spell I used to open it._

Misha nodded, pulling himself out of the backseat. “You could have told the Winchesters that you can design rituals and sigils on the fly.”

_I never had occasion._

“It might have been handy.”

Castiel projected a wave of skepticism and a memory of a morgue and sickness, commenting: _I haven’t had the impression that my knowledge could adequately assist in a hunt._

“Well, now you’ve got me. I may not know much about supernatural stuff apart from what’s been on the show, but I get people. We’d make a great team.”

 _I’d be honored_ , Castiel said, and Misha paused with his hands on the wires to start the car. He’d never hotwired a car before, but it couldn’t be that difficult, right?

“Thanks, Cas. For what it’s worth, if we can’t get Dean to come around, thank you for saving me.” With the angel’s quiet acquiescence humming at the back of Misha’s mind, he managed to bring the car to life with just a stutter of its motor, and put it into reverse. “Right. We’ll probably need all sorts of weird shit for this ritual, yeah? So I’ll get us close to Pontiac, then we ditch the car and you zap us wherever we need to go. Sam and Dean are bound to turn up sooner or later.”

 

“Dean! Dean, stop the car! There, look!”

They’d been flying blind – their second EMF had blown out just before they entered Pontiac, and now they had no reliable way to trace Castiel or Misha – Dean didn’t think a radio on the fritz counted.

“That’s the car!” Sam exclaimed, pointing. “Looks like they ditched it!”

“Fantastic. So now what?”

“We could try praying.”

“Last I checked, it wasn’t Cas who ran away, Sam!”

“Or we use the ritual again.”

“Damn. We’ve left all of Misha’s stuff at the shelter. Didn’t think it’d take long.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “So, get to the point of crossing?”

“What was that girl’s name? Sibyll?”

“Sibyll Howard.”

“Phone book?”

“Phone book.”

Dean pulled the Impala to the curb next to a phone booth, and Sam climbed out to check. He came back with a sour expression. “Nothing registered under her name.”

“So what, _now_ we’re out of luck?”

“We can still try prayer.”

“Fine!” It wasn’t, not really. Dean had no idea what to tell Castiel, or Misha. He didn’t think an apology was going to cut it, and he had no interest in a heart to heart when, one, his brother was watching, and, two, they were in the middle of a supernatural hot zone. He dropped his hands from the wheel. “Castiel, get your winged ass back here so we can do this properly without blowing out the electricity for the whole state.”

Sam looked skeptical.

“What?!”

“Nice, Dean.”

Dean sighed and tried again. “Look, we’ll figure this out, okay? Don’t make me do it like this.”

Suddenly, a shadow fell over the windshield. Sam was out of the car and pointing his gun while Dean scrambled for an angel blade.

“Who the hell are you?!”

The person, or creature, or whatever it was, since it had appeared out of nowhere, stood calmly facing their weapons. It, she, looked female, short-cropped spiky hair and biker boots, a pair of wings tattooed across her collarbones just visible above the edge of her tank top. “Winchesters.”

Dean ground his teeth. “Demon or angel?”

“I am an angel. My name is Machidiel.”

“Nice vessel,” Dean sneered. There seemed to be a trend lately of angels taking barely adult vessels.

“She is a kind soul,” Machidiel replied, apparently completely oblivious to the dig.

“What do you want?” Sam had lowered the gun – it was useless against angels anyway – but had pulled himself up to his full stature, which, in comparison to the young woman, was impressive in its own right.

Machidiel looked up at him, unblinking. “I was sent to investigate the strange phenomena in this town. I heard praying.”

“I wasn’t praying to you!”

“Our brother Castiel isn’t here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I am… surprised.”

“Oh really? Jeez, it’s like pulling teeth! I preferred Alfie.”

The angel’s gaze swiveled back to Dean without even the tiniest movement of her head. She clearly hadn’t been in the vessel for very long. “You will cease your involvement. The forces of Heaven will take care of this problem and cleanse this town from its demon infestation.”

“Thanks, but we’ve got it covered. You don’t have to get involved.”

“Machidiel.” And there was Castiel. Dean hadn’t heard the flap of his wings, but now that the angel was there, he was a forceful presence. Dean had forgotten how intense Cas could be when he tried – and still, knowing that Misha was there, it felt… a little ridiculous. At least, they had at some point ditched the hoodie, and were now in just a black shirt.

The other angel apparently had no difficulty recognizing him, new vessel or no. She turned to face him slowly and deliberately, as if she were willing every single muscle to bow to her will in turn.

Castiel only spared a quick glance for Sam and Dean before focusing entirely on her.

“Castiel. So you are here.”

“Yes. Machidiel, please leave. There is no need for Heaven’s involvement. The rift will be closed.”

“Forgive me, brother, if I cannot take your word for it.”

Castiel didn’t look as though he could forgive it. In fact, he suddenly looked worn out, almost confused. “Machidiel, I implore you…”

“I have my orders, Castiel.”

“We used to fight side by side, Machidiel. I understand that my sins cannot be forgiven, but in memory of all we have achieved together, I implore you to listen to me now. I am not asking you to circumvent Heaven’s orders, Machidiel – just to give the Winchesters and myself one more day. If the rift has not been closed by then, I will not stand in your way.”

Machidiel blinked, and Dean hoped that that was a sign she was considering Castiel’s words – otherwise, they would have another problem on their hands. Dean shifted the angel blade in his palm to get a better grip.

To his relief, Machidiel inclined her head. “Very well. 24 hours, Castiel, and not a minute more.”

Castiel looked relieved, even though his complexion had become increasingly ashen. “Thank you.”

With a flap of invisible wings, Machidiel was gone, and Castiel slumped a little, exhaling deeply.

“So you two got history?” Dean asked, lowering the blade. Any topic was better than the vessel issue, or the fact that Cas looked like he’d just pulled an all-nighter.

“Machidiel was amongst the angels who laid siege to Hell under my command, Dean. She is one of the few who survived the onslaught of demons that gave me the opportunity to raise you from perdition. I owe her much.” Castiel turned away, staring down the road. “You ought to leave. There is very little you can do to help here, and if Heaven’s forces do become involved I cannot guarantee for your safety.”

“That’s bullshit, Cas.” Dean put the blade down, indicating the car. “Get in. We’ll do this together like we always have.”

Castiel fixed his stare on him, intense and imploring. “Dean…”

“Cas,” Dean retorted, doing his best to stare the angel down. It was an impossible task as he knew from experience, but he wasn’t backing down – not now, anyway. They were not having this conversation now.

Apparently, Castiel had gotten the memo this time. He averted his gaze, first glancing at Sam, then at the car in between the two brothers. “We have very little time. There are some ingredients I will need that are hard to come by.”

“We can hit the hunter’s shop in town, see if they have the stuff we need.”

Castiel nodded. “Very well.” He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and passed it to Sam. “These are the ingredients. Meet me at the trailer in an hour.” And with that, he was gone.

 

The desert air was very hot and dry, rasping in Misha’s throat like grains of sand. He wasn’t sure he liked the state of semi-awareness Castiel was keeping him in, the disassociation from his body barely there at all, if it weren’t for the fact that he wasn’t directing its movements. They were collecting an obscure root from god knows where, Misha didn’t particularly want to know. For all his desire to get involved in charities, he didn’t exactly have the most pleasant memories of African deserts.

Castiel apparently knew exactly where to find what he was looking for – he brushed aside an apparently barren patch of sand to reveal the root, pulling it out of the ground with his bare hands.

_You know, I don’t think it would be a good idea right now to let Dean know that you would not hesitate to give up your vessel if he asked._

“Be silent, Misha.”

 _You need to learn to look out for yourself, too, Cas_.

Castiel fully freed the root and straightened, spreading his wings. Misha could sense the unfurling of grace by now, the tell-tale signs that the angel was about to flit off somewhere else. It was a good thing that he could not escape from this particular conversation.

They returned to the trailer and the small pile of odd things Castiel had stored under the steps leading up to the front door. The most ordinary object was probably the piece of chalk Castiel had collected on the playground. The area was still roped off, but that hadn’t stopped the angel. Misha just hoped no one had seen them, but then Cas could make himself invisible with just a blink, so they were probably safe. The Winchesters weren’t there yet, but that was only to be expected.

_So how is this going to work?_

“I cannot pass through the rift inside a vessel, but I need to reach through to close it. It will not be for very long, but I will have to leave you.”

_Okay. I can handle it._

“I know.”

_What if you need to take me back?_

“Misha…” Castiel sat down on the steps, collecting his thoughts. “I will not force you to return. If you chose to remain in this universe, whether as my vessel or no, I will make sure that you are safe.”

_That’s nice, but I’m not staying unless I’m your vessel. I won’t go running around as the spitting image of Castiel, or Jimmy. I probably couldn’t get into a car crash without being dragged to the police as missing person. I’d rather face my own universe, thanks._

“Very well. In that case, I will only leave you the very instant I pull the rift close. You will remain on the other side.”

_That all sounds far too simple._

“It won’t be. I don’t understand why the rift has remained open for so long, but the energy within it is immense. A human could not survive the crossing, and closing it will weaken me considerably.”

_But not enough that you won’t be able to get back into your empty vessel, I guess._

“I’m not sure.”

“Dammit, Cas!” And suddenly Misha was back in control of his body. He didn’t know whether it was his anger that did it, or whether Castiel had relinquished control to conserve energy – either way, he wasn’t done with this discussion. “Castiel, when were you planning to tell me this, let alone Dean?”

_I have no wish to remain in a vessel that does not meet with Dean’s approval. The consequences for me are irrelevant._

“No, they aren’t! Not to me and not to the Winchesters! Besides, the problem isn’t that Dean doesn’t like me. The problem is he likes you, and I’m a third wheel – and no, that’s not a good thing.”

_So I have been told._

“I don’t know why he forgot about Jimmy either, but I know how they feel about this vessel business. If you could actually show him how much it drains you to be in an unoccupied body…”

_I have informed Dean of the fact already._

“I know. Cas, humans aren’t rational. They are illogical, random, flawed – they forget things or misunderstand or downplay stuff they don’t want to hear.”

_It has happened before with Dean._

“Well, then tell him again! I promise, I swear to you I won’t meddle with your relationship. If you don’t want me to listen, _tell me_ , and I won’t. What you and Dean have… it’s special. I won’t get in between that. When I gave consent, you know I meant it.”

_I need you to understand: You will never have a relationship again. You will be bound to me for eternity. You won’t age, or die, unless I release your soul._

“Which you won’t, unless you’re forced. Yeah, I get it, Cas. Besides, I will have a relationship – with you, and with the Winchesters, if you let me. That’s more than I had in my universe, where Jared and Jensen were more concerned with themselves than with me, and you were a fictional character. I’m prepared to face an eternity of that. Besides, I can _help_.”

_The Winchesters are approaching._

“All right.”

And just like that, Misha was in the backseat again. If he was honest with himself, and Castiel, he didn’t hold out much hope. Dean was struggling with what Castiel had come to mean to him as it was, and it wouldn’t help adding Misha to the mix – faced with the choice, despite his earlier words, Dean would choose just Cas over Castiel and Misha, now that Castiel didn’t need to help Misha anymore. But they would have to talk this issue of Castiel’s energy levels out before the day was through and the angel and his vessel were on either side of an interdimensional rift.

Misha honestly had no idea when his life had become a sci-fi show.

 

 


	11. The Angel

## ~ The Angel ~

Dean directed the Impala past the roped off playground and pulled to a stop just before the trailer, where Castiel was waiting. They had found the bones on the ingredients list at the underground shop for hunters on the edge of town – thankfully without causing a stir because they were the Winchesters. The owner of the shop seemed to be pretty out of touch with active hunting, considering he hadn’t even noticed the increase in demons, nor the spiking EMF, though he seemed perpetually puzzled by the interference in his radio.

Sam handed the bones over, and Castiel inspected them carefully, avoiding the gaze of either of the brothers. It was getting on Dean’s nerves.

“All good?”

Cas lowered his hand with the bones and looked up at Dean, his expression neutral, but his eyes pleading. “The bones are satisfactory.”

“Good. Great. How’s this ritual going to go down, then?”

Castiel put the bones down with the curious assortment he had gathered on the stairs to the trailer, weariness in his movements. “Dean…”

“Not talking about it.”

Cas turned around to him, mouth slightly open as if to say something, but in the end, he just shook his head. There was sadness in his eyes, clear as day, but who knew if it was just Misha? Who knew if any of the emotions Cas had expressed in the past days had, in fact, been the angel’s? Who knew if Misha hadn’t just gotten a lot better at playing him – he had fooled Dean before, after all. Damn, this situation needed to stop, and stop now.

“I need to reach through the rift and pull it close by extending my grace. The ritual will serve to anchor me.”

“What about Misha?”, Sam asked, and Dean wanted to both glare at him and silently thank him.

“I have to leave the vessel for it to work,” Cas said, and that was it. He didn’t offer them a chance to say goodbye, nor did he report any such desire on part of the actor stuck in the wrong universe. He wouldn’t be for much longer, and Dean was grateful. It meant Cas would be back in an empty vessel, and there wouldn’t be some poor guy in there suffering. At least, so he kept telling himself.

Castiel set to work with the chalk, drawing symbols and sigils on the ground in a fairly large circumference, necessitating Dean to move the car further away. Sam remarked dryly how lucky they were that the playground was closed, or they would have had the police down on them in no time.

Dean had to admit, though, whatever Cas was doing looked less like devil worship or madness, and more like some strange public Zen display. The angel was moving surely, fluently, so unlike his sister’s unexperienced stiffness it was jarring. He completed sigil after sigil, moving as if in a dance choreography. Eventually, he straightened, and began crunching up ingredients in a small clay bowl.

“You and Sam should stay outside of the circle. It will shield you from the force of the dimension portal and from my grace.”

“Will we need sunglasses?” Dean quipped, in an attempt at humor that came out brittle.

Castiel met his gaze and held it for a long time. “No.”

“You’re about to do something stupid, aren’t you. Dammit, Cas–”

“It is the only way. This is beyond human capacity, Dean. I will not condemn a universe to destruction. I have caused too much pain already.”

There was really nothing Dean could say to that. He stepped outside the half-circle of sigils, behind Castiel, who placed the bowl on the point that would have been the exact center of a full circle before moving into the protected area and facing Dean and the bowl. He lit the contents with a match, chanted something under his breath as the flame roared up.

Whatever it was that was burning in there, it smelled heady, sweet to the point of nauseating, oppressive, and it was smoking like hell. Castiel took a step back, the air around him crackling and buzzing with energy like the center of a thunderstorm. Smoke was curling around him, tendrils roping up around his arms and legs, congesting behind him. It was nothing like the portal Balthazar had opened for Dean and Sam back in the day, but the energy, the otherworldliness was the same. Of all the portals Dean had seen, this made him feel sickest – not even the door to Hell had held the same repulsiveness.

Castiel caught his gaze, and Dean felt a thrill of recognition in face of his expression – his memory screamed _souls_ and _purgatory_ and _leviathan –_ he started forward, but Sam’s hand landed on heavily on his arm. He was screaming something, but it was lost in the buzzing in Dean’s ears, and Castiel closed his eyes, chanting again.

Behind him, a tear was forming in mid-air, an ugly, smoky, blackened, festering wound, charging up the air and smelling like death, but from the angel, a light was expanding, so pure and clear that it hurt to look at – but Castiel had been right, it was nowhere as bright as Dean would have expected from previous experience. The light, the grace, whatever it was, swallowed up Cas’s eyes first, breaking forth from closed lids, then from his mouth as the chanting in a human voice seized and a shrill whine set in – the angel’s true voice, incomprehensible to most humans. Castiel turned, facing the portal, and he was suddenly much larger, gigantic wings of light expanding from his back and spreading in a powerful snap, the air around them prickling with static energy. There was a discharge, jolting into one of the sigils on the ground and blackening it, a whirlwind of dust picking up as Castiel flapped his wings – then every discernable form was gone. Inside the semi-circle, there was a storm of dust and smoke and light and Dean couldn’t tell if Misha was still there, if Castiel had taken him to the other side already, if Castiel was still there, if the anchor had worked… He didn’t even realize he was calling the angel’s name until he nearly bit his tongue off.

The lightning storm went on for what seemed like an eternity. The earth within the sigils had burned beyond recognition, sparks of electricity shooting up and around. The air had cooled even where Dean was standing, a freezing contrast to the power discharges, but all the more fitting to the gooseflesh all over his arms. Sam watched with equal horror and fascination, his eyes reflecting the lightning bolts as the air around them seemed to darken even though night was still far away.

The change came as suddenly as the spectacle had begun – the blackness faded. The tear became clearly visible once more, but now there was bright energy buzzing at the decayed edges, and it was closing fast, knitting together like a wound. The brightness itself didn’t fade, but flickered, still incorporeal, until a figure stumbled right out of it, and fell right by the clay bowl. No force in the world could have stopped Dean then.

 

Misha felt as though he were torn apart. He had known that Castiel’s power was considerable, he had known that the rift itself was a powerhouse of energy, but he had never imagined the sheer extend of the angel as he set his grace free, tearing down every barrier that kept it in check, kept it controlled for the benefit of his vessel and the environment in which he walked – Castiel, angel of the Lord, soldier of heaven, was unsheathing his full potential and Misha couldn’t handle it. He was pretty sure he was screaming, crying, and it was surprising, really, that some part of him was still clear enough to realize. His body was being ripped apart by forces beyond human, he was freezing cold, he couldn’t move, couldn’t run, just couldn’t, and yet he felt _protection_ and _safe_ at his very core, only at his core, where something pure, something soft and completely _Castiel_ had wrapped itself around his soul.

He never realized they had passed through the rift until the alley, _the_ alley materialized before his eyes, until his limps became leaden and clumsy and _his_ , and what was Castiel around him shuddered and strained, failing.

“You’re dying!” Misha didn’t know if he’d shouted, if he’d called out with his mind, or if Castiel was still in touch with his soul – it felt immediate, wordless, and unveiled.

Castiel didn’t respond, and that was response enough. He began to pull back. “Goodbye, Misha Collins. It was my honor.”

“No!” Misha lashed out, took hold, and-

 

“Cas?” Dean fell to his knees on the ground by the bowl, faint sparks of electricity shooting through the denim of his jeans and going unremarked. The air was still charged, still full of brightness, but the vessel – no, the body, _Castiel_ , lay unmoving, very cold, caked in smoke and mud. There was a huff of breath when Dean pressed his hand against Cas’s mouth. Dean pulled him up until he was leaning against him, trying to rub some warmth back into his arms. Cas was still in Misha’s clothes, but he suspected that might change soon. _If_ Castiel was alright.

Dean looked up at the brightness still hanging above them, flickering and slowly fading, the air now clean and fresh, the unnatural energy receding. It would be gone soon.

Castiel shuddered, then fell still again. Dean brought his cheek before his mouth – still breathing.

There was a warm huff against his skin, then: “Hey, no kissing the bride before the wedding.”

Dean jerked back, thinking he’d imagined the words, and sure he’d misheard, but Cas’s eyes were on him, blue and intense as always, until he turned away and spit out blood, his arms barely supporting him. Dean looped his own arm around him, keeping him upright, and rubbed soothing circles on his back. “Come on, buddy. It’s done. We’re good. You did it, Cas.”

Cas shook his head, and coughed up more blood. Alarms started thrilling at the back of Dean’s mind.

“Cas? Buddy?”

“Not… Cas.” He fell back against Dean, eyelids heavy and face ashen. “Misha.”

“What the hell!?”

There was blood coming from Misha’s nose, but he laughed nonetheless, baring bloodstained teeth. “Dean Winchester, you are an idiot.”

“What happened to Cas?”

“You fool! That’s Cas! Right… there.” Misha waved a hand, completely uncoordinatedly, before his arm dropped heavily, and he coughed against Dean’s neck, wet and increasingly weak. “Shit.”

That summed up the situation pretty accurately, Dean thought. He looked up again at the light around them – the purity and brightness that had been flickering, _fading_ , silent and wordless and now so non-threatening, almost protective, despite the fact that he’d breached the semi-circle of sigils. “Cas?”

There was a flash of brightness, a vaguely human shape with massive wings searing itself into Dean’s vision. Afterwards, the light dimmed alarmingly, to the point where Dean could almost see the small forest beyond the semi-circle. He felt sick and cold.

“What the hell went wrong?!”

“I think he’s dying, Dean,” Sam said, not unsympathetic, but entirely unhelpful, to Dean’s right.

“You think?!”

“Just look! The energy levels are fading!”

“Do something about it, genius!”

“I don’t know what!”

Dean shook Misha, but the actor’s head just rolled limply off his shoulder. There was more blood trickling down his chin. Dean wiped it away in a pointless attempt to make everything alright, but then Sam was there, hoisting Misha up in his arms.

“Dean… We have to get him to a hospital.”

Dean didn’t move, couldn’t move. He stared right at the center off the brightness, of Castiel’s grace, where there were faint streaks of blue intermingling with the pure white. He could have sworn Cas was looking at him, could have sworn he could feel the angel’s presence, his scalp tingling like it had when Cas had first tried to talk to him in the abandoned gas station. Now, he wasn’t scared or confused – he was furious.

“What the hell are you waiting for! Manifest your vessel before you burn out!”

Nothing happened, if anything, the pure energy that was Cas condensed even more.

Dean stepped further into the semi-circle of sigils, not feeling or caring about the biting cold, just reaching out. “Cas, what are you doing? Come on – you can’t do this to me.”

Castiel retreated further, and Dean was hit by a wave of sadness so profound he felt as though someone had carved his heart out with a spoon.

“Cas, I don’t understand. Talk to me, please!”

Suddenly, there was a commotion behind him, and Dean could _feel_ Castiel’s attention shifting away from him – he turned, and found that Misha was awake and struggling against Sam until his brother was forced to set him down on his own feet, a steadying hand still at his elbow. Misha looked horrible, the only colors in his face were red droplets of blood and his eyes, still piercing, completely determined. He pushed Sam away, and took a stuttering step towards Dean, teeth bared. His gaze was fixed firmly on Cas. “Yes!” It was more of a breathless whisper, and ended in Misha falling to his knees with a wet cough, but he still fought Dean off when he came to help. “Do you hear me, you bloody idiot! YES!” There was barely any force behind the shout, and it scared the shit out of Dean.

He turned around to Castiel. “What are you waiting for?! You’re both dying, dammit! What was the point of all this?!”

There was a sharp, shrieking whistle, just for a second, in the air around them – before it could even occur to Dean to stopper his ears, it had stopped, and Misha’s hand was clamping down on his arm.

“What?! What is it? What was that?!”

“You…”

Dean could barely understand him now.

Misha dragged in a shuddering breath, and Dean could feel Cas crowding closer, reaching out–

“Don’t you dare.” Misha’s eyes flashed, snapping back to meet Dean’s gaze. “Cas won’t take a vessel… without your… consent.” He broke into a coughing fit, splattering Dean’s shirt and sagging forward.

Dean pushed him up, craning his head to look at Cas, but Cas was all around them, now, a bright, pure presence, and finally Dean recognized the feeling – he was saying goodbye.

“What do you need my consent for?! Do you think I want you to die!?”

Misha’s nails dug painfully into his arm, demanding his attention. The actor’s eyes were clamped shut, his teeth gritted, yet he still forced out words: “It’s either that or me. And you… don’t… me.”

“That’s not what I said! I thought there was a choice!”

Not an instant later, Dean’s vision whited out, and he felt an intrusion penetrating his very being, his innermost core. _There is always a choice. I am sorry, Dean. Manifesting a vessel is too draining. I wouldn’t survive._ Castiel’s voice, or whatever it was, was nothing like Misha’s, and yet at the same time eerily similar. It rang with force and purity, and still the candescence was the same – but none of that mattered now.

“So what, you’ll just wait around until you burn out, stuck on Earth without a vessel?”

_I will not take a vessel that doesn’t meet with your approval._

“I don’t approve of you dying, you moron!”

_It’s the only alternative._

“No! You will take Misha as your vessel or so help me, I am gonna kick your ass!”

Dean got a sense of hesitation, regret and expectation mingling into one. _It would be forever. I could not bear it if you changed your mind. Again._

“I won’t! Dammit to hell and back, Cas, I won’t! We’ll deal! I’ll deal! It worked out with Jimmy, it’ll work out with Misha! I’ll get used to it, I swear! Don’t do this to me! I’d rather have you, Cas!”

 

When Dean woke up, he was in the backseat of the Impala, his head cushioned on something soft and familiar. Dean jerked back when the thing moved independently of the car’s rumbling, sitting upright and blinking. He felt as though he’d slept for weeks, drowsy and confused, barely grasping that the flashes of light were the headlights of other cars coming towards them in the night.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean turned to come face to face with Cas, in the backseat with him, and back in his familiar trenchcoat. There was a wet splat on the coat’s shoulder on Dean’s side. Dean stared at it dumbly.

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty.” Sam was in the driver’s seat, grinning like a loon.

Dean met his gaze in the rearview mirror and pulled a grimace. “What happened?”

“I apologize,” Castiel said, looking uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have reached out to your soul, but it was the only method of communication. Misha was… severely injured.”

“He still there?”

Cas nodded with a small smile. “Yes. He’s resting. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean rubbed his eyes. “What for?”

“For your consent.”

“Nah, don’t… Don’t thank me, man. If I hadn’t been such a damn fool-”

Castiel’s expression became somber. “There is no need to apologize to me, Dean, though Misha might appreciate the sentiment. If he hadn’t foolishly insisted on re-crossing the rift on his own, there would have been no vessel for me to return to.”

“You went through _expecting_  to die?!”

Cas ducked his head. “I didn’t know. It was a possibility. Travelling to another universe is very draining.”

“Well, don’t ever do that again.”

A smile was tugging at Castiel’s mouth again. “I will attempt not to.”

Dean was still left with the uncomfortable feeling that he’d messed up, but what else was new. He swallowed down his regret and shifted in the seat. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Back to Garth’s house. Figured we could all use some rest,” Sam said. “The demons all cleared out after we were done, and Cas says Machidiel won’t be back.”

“Yeah, right. Pull over. I’ll drive.”

 

In the end, they only spend a few more days in the hut in the middle of nowhere. It was a nice change not to worry about something or other for a while, except what to cook for dinner and whether to sit outside in the cold to watch the stars or inside on the sofa in front of the crappy TV, but Dean knew it couldn’t last, of course. Castiel was eager to take up his penance again as soon as he had recovered, though he seemed to enjoy the time spent with the Winchesters. And they – well, there were the trials to get back to. Still, it was refreshing.

Castiel had settled into a kind of easy time-share with Misha, who had glared at Dean for maybe an hour after first waking up, but then had reverted to his cheery self. The laughter did all of them good, though Dean would never admit that out loud to the cheeky actor, especially not when he was in one of his moods where he would talk circles around them both. Cas, too, seemed more relaxed – apparently, Misha’s presence really was doing him good, though he did little to alleviate the restlessness that hung about the angel like a cloud.

One evening, Dean was sitting on the hood of the Impala with Misha, Sam having opted to stay inside on his laptop. It was nice, relaxed. They were having a beer, and Misha’d entertained him with some thoughts about introducing Cas to social media – about which Dean was probably just as clueless as the angel, if he was honest, but Misha made it sound like fun, even when he didn’t get half the references. They’d fallen into a comfortable silence when Dean pressed the question that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for two days now. “So, how is this time-share thing going to work out once Cas gets back on the road?”

“I think he should tell you.” Misha sat up a little straighter and rolled his shoulders, and then he was Cas. The change went smoothly, now, no more blackouts or seizures on Misha’s part, and no more protests from either – they had settled into a rhythm that still made Dean dizzy, but looked as though it might actually last.

“So, Cas?”

“Misha has consented to allow me full control of the body unless ‘there’s nothing going on’,” Cas said, clearly quoting. “It is a sensible arrangement.”

“What does it mean? You gonna pop in on us now and again, let Misha have his free reign?”

“He’s not a pet, Dean. But yes. I would like that.”

“Good. So would I. Don’t be a stranger, like they say, yeah?”

“I… will attempt it. I would stay with you, but-”

“Your penance is very important to you. I get it, Cas.” Dean bumped his shoulder against Cas’s. “Come on, finish your beer. No need to leave all the fun to your vessel, yeah?”

 

 


	12. Epilog

## ~ Epilog ~

Despite the arrangement, Dean didn’t end up seeing a whole lot more of Cas – which was a whole lot less than he would have hoped. The angel would sometimes come round when they’d settled into a motel late in the evening, but then he would look very tired, and hand over to Misha immediately, whose lightning quick personality also wasn’t at its best when it was running on three hours sleep in a week. They ate, watched TV together, talked a bit about aimless topics, and then they would all go to sleep.

Sometimes, Cas would only come round when the Winchesters were already sleeping. Dean found it decidedly creepy, since Castiel never managed to wake any of them up, never mind that years of hunting had made them light sleepers. Still, in the morning, there would be signs of Misha’s presence, like an empty coffee cup that hadn’t been there before, or crunched-up pillows on the sofa. After a while, Misha started leaving notes. Mostly, they were just little poems he’d scribbled out on the fly, and just left on the motel table because Cas couldn’t take them with him – the trenchcoat’s pockets were only so big (Dean collected them in the journal which sat in Misha’s bag in the Impala’s trunk). Sometimes, Misha would leave notes about Cas: _He’s missing Heaven. Talk to him._ Or: _He’s tired. Don’t bug him._ Or even: _He just needs to talk to you. Call him._ These notes always ended up in Dean’s duffel bag, somehow, and he never mentioned them to Sam. And if Cas dropped in that evening because Dean had prayed to him, so what. Nobody needed to know, and Dean felt the better for it – Cas, too, he thought. He especially had no intention of ever mentioning one particular note:

‘Your presence aligns the universe’ _is not_ _only a pun. It’s also one of the strongest phrases of endearment Enochian has to offer._

~ THE END ~

 

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it! I hope you enjoyed it, and please give [kelisab|playthefool](http://playthefool.livejournal.com/335501.html) some love for the fantastic artwork! And THANK YOU for reading!  
> (Also, I will be creating a custom PDF for this fic pretty soon, so you might want to look out for that rather than the automatic AO3 version!)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Supernatural et al © CW, WB and Erik Kripke. No infringement intended, no money made.


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